


the gather, the bend, the bringing forth

by BlueKiwi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azor Ahai Prophecy, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Incest, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, Dark Character(s), Drama & Romance, Episode AU: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Gen, Jon Snow Knows Something, Lore & Prophecy, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Baratheon, Minor Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Minor Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Morally Grey Character(s), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Redemption, References to ASOIAF canon, The Long Night, The Prince That Was Promised, slow burning plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 169,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi
Summary: "He is their catspaw because above all things he is an honorable man. And in his entire life, he has never wanted to be anything other than that damnable virtue as much as he wants it now."Neither prophecy nor love nor honor is ever written in stone--and yet, all are inexplicably difficult to run away from.Or: Jon doesn't kill Daenerys and everything they know about the Long Night changes.





	1. The King and the Conqueror

The smell of burning flesh lingers in the air.

It coats Jon’s tongue, along with the ashes and the smoke and the salty bitterness of blood (whose blood? He has lost count of the bodies), and it coils around his throat like a hangman’s noose. The grime and ichor of the war—the _wars_ , Gods, have there been so many—sluices through his armor as he trudges past the lines of dark, faithful faces. There is something in their eyes that unnerves him as he has never been unnerved before. Something implacable. Unchanging. Cold. They are soldiers. Only soldiers.

 _Her_ soldiers.

Jon grimaces. The tang of death is nowhere near as biting as that searing thought, of bright gold flames and acidic black smoke and of the hulking winged demon that screeched with the rage of a thousand years. Of tumbling stones and pitiful wailing and the animal-like screams of fear and agony, of a city being incinerated into memory with fire and blood.

Fire and blood.

The Targaryen words. _Their_ words. 

Dany’s words.

Gods.

Tyrion had spoken to him, with the same worldly logic that had damned them all already. Where had that logic been on the eve before the Night King’s devastating attack on Winterfell? Where was that cunning when they needed to outmaneuver a cruel pirate, to outwit a crueler queen? Jon should have been livid, should have been enraged by the mere idea of logic and sanity that Tyrion had laid before him. After all, did not the defenders of morality and innocence need claim that their victory is nothing except gilded failure, beautifully presented and rotten to the core? 

And yet.

They churn in his mind, the choices. Each choice, every action, every last road—all of them have led him of all people here, standing outside the throne room, an ash-strewn dragon hovering somewhere like the shadow of regret behind him. From the moment he left Winterfell, all those years ago, to the day he woke gasping from the nothingness of death to that first hesitant kiss with the Dragon Queen aboard a galley—a part of him bitterly wonders if this is the true prophecy Melisandre saw and believed in.

A prince that was promised feels like nothing more than another burden.

Another lie.

Jon sees her in front of him, standing out like a beacon with her starlit-hued hair, in a darkness of her own making. He can reason with her surely but even as he argues with himself, he knows that Tyrion and Sansa and Arya and all of the others have already made their pact and their choices. He is their catspaw because above all things he is an honorable man. And in his entire life, he has never wanted to be anything _other_ than that damnable virtue as much as he wants it now.

She turns towards him, eyes bright with such wonder that the despair almost swallows him whole.

He is a good man. A just man.

She has killed thousands of innocents. With fire and blood. Her words.

 _Their_ words.

Words, pleas, arguments—they all tumble from him in desperation but now he feels as if he is racing against the exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him and the looming shadows of the ghosts of King’s Landing that reach over them both. He cannot break his word to her. He _must_ break his word to her. That is what is logical, that is what is just—vengeance and an end to the madness.

“Please.” _Please_.

Flint in her eyes. Calm determination. 

“Dany.” _Don’t make me do this_.

Even now he can hear Arya's words, condemnation and disgust.

_I know a killer when I see one._

She smiles and Jon cannot, he _cannot_ …

“Be with me. Build a world with me. This is our reason.”

Fire and blood.

He is a Targaryen.

She reaches towards him, a smile on her face so beautiful and so genuine, it rends his heart in two.

_“Duty is the death of love.”_

But he is also a Stark.

"Together."

_I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men..._

And he will break his word one last time.

_...for this night and all nights to come._

* * *

In Winterfell, the ravens scream.

And the being once known as Bran Stark jerks to attention, blazing pain twisting and scouring his boyish face. 

His vision—the living and breathing history and future of the world—has shuttered close so violently that he rocks in his chair, fingers tightening into claws as the biting pain leaves him breathless. It is as if the drum of a million constant voices abruptly pitched into an unimaginable scream of terror, blasting him into blindness. Far away, he can hear the shouts of concern from the boy’s sister, the cold Northern Queen, and Samwell Tarly.

Too many voices.

Gods, and they're all _screaming_.

He retches.

The part of him that has not been wizened by the knowledge that is crushing him, the small remote part of him that is still the boy who climbed the walls and loved the stories of heroes, adds his voice to the screams. This part has always known, this part can see what it is the Raven never could. For the Raven does not have a brother, did not listen to the stories with the imagination of a boy, did not know, _could_ not know...

Fire and ice.

Fire _and_ ice.

 _No_.

“ _Jon_!”

* * *

In the ruins of a majestic city, a queen of fire kisses a prince of ice.

And somewhere, forgotten in the depths of the sea, a dragon rears its head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from McKenzie Chinn's "holy/war".


	2. The Northern Queen

Sansa Stark has seen and understood many things in her lifetime but the fantastical creature that her brother has become is not one of them.

She stands next to him on the walkway overlooking the courtyard, the one where she cannot help but see the ghosts of those who died in the wars recent and far-flung to the past. Once upon a time this is where she and Jeyne had played as naive children, dreaming of shining princes and tourneys and honeyed sweet cakes. This is where her Father would stride to some important meeting with the Northern lords in the Great Hall, where her lady Mother would watch over her children running in from the wolfswood, where Robb and Jon and Arya and Bran and Rickon would chase each other with wooden swords.

She can almost hear her father’s voice through the cold wail of wind: _winter is coming._

 _Winter has come and gone, Father. And look at us now. Look at us._ She ignores the press on her heart, her face and voice steady and cool as marble as she meets the Raven’s fathomless gaze.

“I still don’t trust her.”

She doesn’t know why she tells him this—he is the Raven now. He already knows. Even so…

“She gave her armies for our fight against the Night King and his army. Ours was a battle for the living. Hers is for the throne. The North has no interest in that game anymore.” How could they, after the nightmare they survived?

Silence.

Sansa sighs. “And yet _Jon_ insists that she will be a good queen, for the little time he has known her. _Jon_ says we should trust her. _Jon_ marched south with her because he believes himself in love. Or he believes that she will be a good queen. As if it has never occurred to him that he cannot have a clear opinion of it.” She pauses, hesitant. “Jon is...a good man. But he _trusts_ too easily. He is not being cautious.”

No expression filters across the Raven’s face as he quietly responds, “Is it her whom you mistrust...or our cousin?”

Sansa presses her lips into a thin line of irritation. Yes. That particular detail. It still wrenches painfully within her, the dull shock of it all on the heels of the battle. She argues with herself that he is a Targaryen in blood only—her brother (the word “cousin” is foreign and bitter on her tongue and tastes too much like _her_ ) will always have the temperament of a Stark, if not the good sense he should have learned from Father and Robb’s mistakes.

Still, if he _must_ be a Targaryen ( _fire and blood_ , whispers a voice in the back of her mind), Sansa knows how much better it would be to have a Northern lord with the right ( _wrong wrong wrong_ ) name on the throne than a foreign queen who demands loyalty rather than earns it.

“I trust him to do the right thing,” she finally responds, her voice dry. “Whatever he decides what that might be.”

The Raven looks away, down into the courtyard. Sansa catches a splash of white fur out of the corner of her eye but when she turns her attention to it in confusion, it is gone. She frowns. Hadn’t Ghost…?

“When she topples Cersei, will the North still bow to the Dragon Queen?”

Bow. _Subservience_. Sansa’s expression does not change. “The North is not mine to give.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Because I am in no position to give one.”

Silence again.

The Raven, this old being with archaic knowledge that wears the face of a boy, gazes dispassionately at the milling survivors down in the courtyard, the murmur of conversations lost to Sansa. And yet she knows they are already etching themselves in the living memory of the Raven, and the idea that every word or deed she will ever say or do will forever be in his mind once again unnerves her.

“What,” the Raven suddenly asks, “do you make of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

The abrupt shift in conversation surprises her. She turns her head away from the specter of white fur—a memory or something more?—and furrows her brow in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“He threw away his entire kingdom for the love of a Northern girl.” The Raven’s voice is soft, emotionless. “And for want of a prophecy, the entire realm went to war.”

 _Prophecies_ , Sansa thinks with a scoff. _Prophecies and dragons and magic_. Have they not already suffered the lot of them with this war, with the battle against the Night King and his armies?

Aloud she only says, “Men have gone to war for less.”

“Jon Snow is the product of that union, the result of a man chasing love and a centuries-old prophecy.” The Raven turns, meets her gaze, aloof judgement in his eyes. “And still you trust him to do the right thing. What is the right thing?”

She cannot help it—she shifts her gaze away. “Jon is not Rhaegar.”

“No,” the Raven admits. She can still feel his gaze on her. “No, he is not. I believe he is something much worse.”

Fire and blood. Fire and ice.

For some reason she cannot pinpoint, a chill runs through Sansa.

Before she can spin her thoughts into clarity however, there is a movement again out of the corner of her eye but when she turns this time, the ghost— _or Ghost—_ does not dissolve into memory but reveals itself to be the massive shape of Samwell Tarly, a man who seems to constantly wear an expression of surprise, as if he can never quite believe people notice him. She raises one eyebrow at him, a silent question.

“I beg your pardons,” he blunders nervously. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

She waves away the apology. “Unless it is something urgent.” _Something much worse_. A curious dread curls in the pit of her stomach. “Have we heard from Jon or Arya?”

The Tarly man nods. “N-no. Not as of yet. There have been no messages from the capital...” His eyes shift momentarily to the Raven, something Sansa cannot help but notice, “...so that must be a good thing? T-the Queen—Queen Cersei, that is—would not wait to gloat. And Jon would tell us immediately if the battle was won.”

The Raven looks away. “Would he?” Before Tarly can reply, he continues, “What have you learned, Samwell Tarly?”

It is only then that Sansa notices how pale the man is, his fingers trembling where they are wrapped around a small bit of parchment. The curious dread that was merely a kernel unfurls a little more.

“It’s...from the Shadow Tower..."

Confusion. The Night’s Watch abandoned all of their manned posts when the Night King’s army came south of the wall. Eastwatch was destroyed, Castle Black deserted.. As far as anyone knew, the only people in the far North were the freefolk slowly making their way back towards their wild, a few men of the Night's Watch with them to guard the gates of Castle Back once more. But the Shadow Tower to the far west? Who in the world had made it that far so soon?

She opens her mouth to speak...

And something foreign and forgotten and _powerful_ in her suddenly screams in agony, as shrill and unforgiving as the winds of winter.

Reeling, she takes a gasping step backwards, nearly colliding into the Raven who doubles over the same moment she does. She hears Tarly’s quick intake of breath—not the agonized whoosh that escaped her but a confused noise of astonishment—and she reaches out for the wall that keeps her from plummeting to the courtyard below. Melting snow and ice crumble from her fingers and she scarcely feels it.

What? Oh Gods...what is this…

She can hear wolves howling and her vision seems to be filled with white. With snow. _Impossible. Winter is gone and so are the wolves.  
_

_Lady..._

A different pain now—heartache. And it rears its head, foreboding and all-consuming like being beneath the shadow of a mountain and she can’t _breathe_ and the wolves will not stop _howling_ …

_Stop oh Gods please…_

In the storm shrieking through her head, she hears her father’s long-dead voice.

_The lone wolf dies..._

And as quickly as the lightning flash of pain sliced through her skull, it is gone. She stumbles forwards from the abruptness of it, graceless and pale and trembling. Tarly is at her side (for such a big man, how can he move so _fast_?), cautiously holding her arm. “Lady Stark? Sansa?”

Swallowing back a rush of bile in her throat, she waves him off, eyes quickly darting over to her brother—and she regrets immediately turning down Tarly’s assistance. The Raven’s face is pale—much paler than normal—and he is staring back at her in something akin to shock, lips parted in an anguished gasp, eyes wide and dark and scared and... _familiar_.

“Sansa...?" he murmurs and for a moment, oh Gods for a moment...

“Bran?”

A shadow crosses his face—fear. Pain and recognition too but mostly fear.

“Sansa... _Sansa_ , it’s..."

But the moment is gone too soon and he suddenly doubles over at the waist, retching. She hears the shout of alarm burst from her more than plans it, hands reaching out to steady her brother—Bran, _Bran_ , it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be _him—_ and she is aware of Tarly next to her, the parchment in his hand forgotten.

Something about the Shadow Tower…

The kernel has blossomed into a raging storm.

“We must get him inside,” she finds herself saying, urgency coloring her voice even as she struggles to push back her confusion and panic. The memory of pain ghosts through her—the howling wolves, the cold winds of ice and fire as biting as a steel kiss—and her fingers wrap shakily around her brother’s arm. “Help me.”

Even as Tarly moves to the other side of him, the Raven—Bran?—shakes his head vehemently. “No no no. This is not..." Sansa sucks in another breath, as the color leeches from his eyes. The memories come back—the crypts, the screams, the thunder of hundreds of rotting corpses moving above her head—and her grip tightens.

And then...

“ _Jon_!”

She starts and feels Sam do the same. What _about_ Jon?

But the Raven or Bran or whomever she is gripping is lost to them, an anguished moan escaping from his lips as he slumps in his chair. Sansa can feel her heart beating wildly in her chest—Jon and Arya have gone South and she is here in the North, by herself, to pull together the battered remains of Winterfell and…

Jon.

_The lone wolf dies._

The Stark words. The Stark _warning_.

She can hear murmurs now—they’ve attracted the attention of those in the courtyard and there is a part of her that screams that they cannot show weakness, not so soon after the battle, but fear for her brother and the fear of a thousand dead things causes her to hesitate and she throws a desperate glance at Tarly.

“Send a raven. Something has happened in King’s Landing.”

To his credit, Tarly only takes a moment to gather himself and he gives her a short nod, lumbering to his feet. And yet before he moves off, he leans forward again, eyes darting to the trembling, incoherent boy in the chair as he crushes the small rolled bit of parchment into her hand. There is regret and urgency in his eyes and she despises him already for the words and the burden he is about to place on her shoulders atop a house of burning cards.

“Lady Sansa...”

She closes her eyes. _Porcelain. Ivory. Steel._

“It’s the Wall.”

* * *

North and north and north, Castle Black has fallen to shadows and ghosts and silence. In its shadows, a massive gathering of freefolk, looking towards the north. Looking towards home.

And the Wall, weeping as it has for thousands of years, looms as a silent frozen sentinel, as needle-thin cracks splinter through the blue-white mass.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.


	3. The Smuggler

Davos Seaworth is tired.

He descends the broken stairs, grime and soot and blood clinging to each step and then, inevitably, to him. Bone-deep weariness tugs at him nearly as forcefully as gravity, and it only worsens as the stench of death seeps through the stone and brick into the deserted labyrinth within the Red Keep. He is not a stranger to death—after all, has he not survived the Blackwater and wildling attacks and the fight against Ramsay Bolton and the Night King and now...

And now.

The adrenaline of the battle and its terrible, terrible, terrible aftermath has long since faded. As he winds his way through the dark corridor, he cannot help but feel as if they are all standing at the edge of some sort of precipice. This, all of _this,_ does not feel like the end of the battle. It feels like the beginning of something more horrible, more unimaginable, and the mere thought of living through more battles makes him long for an eternal sleep, to rest forever beyond the grasping skeletal hands of war.

Fire and blood.

His lips press into a thin line as his footsteps echo like thunder through the corridor. He does not pretend to be an educated man. A smuggler, a peasant, a commoner—hardly the man to advise kings and queens, noblemen and noblewomen of ancient Houses and with the blood of the First Men and dragons in their veins...and yet here he is, at the end of the days, still alive, when so many of them are not.

Ahead, he sees the stone faces of two of the queen’s Unsullied as they stand guard in front of a makeshift cell. Inside, he knows sits a condemned man.

“I have no qualms with the Queen,” Davos finds himself roughly saying as he holds up a placating hand and the men reach for their sheathed swords. It is a lie and he is sure that they know it because they do not move their hands away from their weapons. A voice unbidden stirs in his thoughts.

_The night is dark and full of terrors, Davos Seaworth, and only fire will burn them all away._

_But what is night to this new day_ , Davos thinks bitterly, as something small nags at him about the words. He quickly shoves the worry to the back of his mind—concerns for another day, perhaps when they have finally tipped over that brink into the void. In a steady tone, he says to the soldiers, “I only wish to speak to him. You have my word that is my only intent.”

The two soldiers trade looks and a moment passes so long that Davos nearly turns to leave. But then one of them jerks his head in a nod and turns to open the cell doors.

“Not long time,” he bites out, gesturing for Davos to enter.

The storeroom-turned-cell is large, dark, and filled with half-empty pots and crates of all sizes. Davos blinks a few times to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the shadows but even that does not prevent him from meeting the gaze of the cell’s sole occupant. He is filthy from the ashes and smoke that have fogged the streets of the capital but despite the weary fatigue in his eyes, Davos can see something glint like dragonglass in them as well.

The small man stares at him in silence for a few moments before letting out a sigh.

“From the number of guests I’ve entertained recently, I imagine that I am the most beloved prisoner in all Westeros.”

“If you mean to ask me if I have brought you any wine, don’t,” Davos replies dryly. Tyrion snorts.

“What good are any of you then, if you cannot quench a dead man’s thirst?”

“The Queen could still be reasoned with.” There is no conviction in his tone. He doesn’t even try to place it there. The words simply seem as if they must be said, an argument for the sake of an argument.

_Only fire will burn them all away._

Tyrion lifts one brow. He is not incredulous, merely speculative. “The bodies of thousands of civilians beg to differ. I am sure you live with the screams of the dying as much as I do.” His face twists into something that may have once resembled a smile. “There is some small mercy in my planned execution—I won’t have to dream about those screams much longer.”

Davos doesn’t respond for several long moments, and Tyrion falls silent as well, as if the promise of death has choked the words from both of them. Davos cannot tell what thoughts are swarming through the small man’s head, and he thinks it better to be in the dark about them. The mistakes, the poor advice, the misplaced trust—all of it, a mountain of failure and deception in the eyes of the Dragon Queen.

There is no excuse for any of it. Not to the mistakes but neither to the slaughter, certainly never to the slaughter. He remembers Shireen (Gods, _Shireen_ ), thinks of her shy smile and quiet laugh, and the blood sacrifice— _fire and blood—_ that brought the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch back to life.

The uncertainty, the nagging feeling of _wrongness_ , digs at him again but rather than dwell on it, he says, “You’ve told Jon to speak to the queen.”

Tyrion meets his eyes silently for a long moment before he looks away. “To a point.”

Davos knows what that means. Without even being told, he knows _exactly_ what Tyrion has told Jon to do. He is not surprised. How can he be? Will they all stop and pretend and turn a blind eye, as if none of this has happened? As if the slaughter and destruction had simply been to the Red Keep, as if the fires had only consumed the Lannister queen and her guards, as if the bells had never rung…

Even now, the memory of the bells, desperate and booming, fills him with a sick dread.

“Jon is a good man,” admits Davos slowly as he sits. “But you have asked something of a man who loves his queen too deeply.”

“I am counting on his love for his sisters to be more powerful.”

Davos frowns. “You’ve turned him into a weapon.”

“He is the only one who can get close to her.” The weariness threatens to cloud Tyrion’s face but his jaw clenches in bitter resolve. “Call it madness, call it grief, call it rage for every horrible thing she has lived through and seen— _but she cannot live_ , Ser Davos. Not if we are to have any hope of putting this godsforsaken world back together.”

Another hesitation. Davos mulls Tyrion’s words in his mind. They are true, more or less. What the Dragon Queen has done is unforgivable—it cannot stand. And Jon is truly the only one who not only has the means but the moral strength to do what needs to be done. And yet...

_The night is long and full of terrors._

Davos pauses.

 _There was more to it than that,_ he recalls. Stannis had certainly believed it, had followed a fool’s course for the sake of a prophecy. And once Shireen—Gods be good, _Shireen—_ had burned life into Jon Snow, Melisandre’s silence on the prophecy, as if already convinced of its fulfillment, should have spoken volumes.

_He is the prince that was promised._

_The night is long..._

_And only fire will burn them all away._

The doubt in his mind grows.

“Lady Sansa believed him to be a better candidate to rule,” he ventures, trying to grab onto that flickering doubt, trying to capture the _wrongness_ that is just beyond his grasp. “The northerners feel the same, as do the freefolk. Many others will declare for Rhaegar Targaryen’s son to take the throne. The fact that he was bloody resurrected of all things will convince others. And if he executes the foreign woman who murdered thousands of civilians, no protest on his part will deny him the Iron Throne.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “Better a king who doesn’t want it at all than a queen who wants it too much.” He lets out a breath. “I once told a Red Priestess that we would like to avoid purifying people with dragonfire. It seems as if that is yet another promise I have broken.”

“But,” Davos continues, grasping, “you will have turned Jon into a Queenslayer and a kinslayer. For the sake of the throne.”

“If you believe the stories about me, those titles don’t turn out all bad,” the dwarf quips humorlessly. He glances around his makeshift cell. “For awhile, at least.”

“And what of the Targaryen curse? You believe him to be immune.”

“The Starks are notoriously honorable,” Tyrion says after a moment too long. “He may have the blood of a Targaryen but he was raised by Ned Stark.”

“And we know how well being honorable ended for Ned Stark.” He gives Tyrion a pointed look. “Or for Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Do you want me to condemn them both to death then?” Tyrion snaps, and even Davos is taken aback by the force of the frustrated rage in his voice. “I have made many mistakes, Ser Davos. That is the truth. But I am also trying to bloody well find a way out of this mess. We can have a mad queen or a reluctant king or neither, and unless another situation presents itself, I’d much rather have a reluctant king. We cannot let fire and blood in the name of liberation be the future of the damned Seven Kingdoms.”

_Fire and blood.  
_

A Targaryen promise. A flipped coin.

There is something _there_ , he knows there is. Something important, something earth-shattering, and it is just beyond his understanding.

He is about to vent his frustration the prisoner when there is a firm rap on the door.

And yet for such a small sound the echoes of it shake the cell so violently that crates fall from their carefully stacked towers and both Tyrion and Davos are knocked from their seats onto the rushes and dirt of the floor. Davos lets out a pained grunt as he lands on the ground with a thud, as the booming roar of some great beast continues to rattle the walls and the boxes and everything within the cell with such vigor that for a moment, Davos is sure that the remaining stones of the Red Keep are about come tumbling down on their heads, burying them forever. A fitting end to such a life, leading a queen with insanity in her blood to the throne.

He grits his teeth as he pushes himself up with his good hand, eyeing the door that is now ajar and occupied by the grim unsmiling faces of Tyrion Lannister’s guards.

“Bloody dragon,” Tyrion mutters, sitting up. Upon the cold looks that the Unsullied give him, he lifts his hands in mock apology. “Forgive me—I know he has had a tiring day, what with his decimation of the city. Let him know he has my sincerest apologies.”

Davos is about to reply—an amused rebuke for the nonchalant attitude of a dead man walking—when he hears another scream from the throat of something far too big, too monstrous, to be human. And the other roar, again, much closer. As if the queen’s black dragon had suddenly developed a supernatural speed. Or as if...

As if...

No.

A flipped coin.

Two sides of the same coin.

Fire and ice.

“Two,” he murmurs, and a quick glance at Tyrion reveals that he has heard the same thing. The dwarf’s brow furrows.

“Impossible.” He glances at the guards and Davos does the same and something in him twists, groans, and tenses at the look of cautious surprise on their faces. Tyrion looks sharply up at Davos, the fatigue that had lined his features suddenly vanishing as quickly as dullness from a blade sharpened by a whetstone. “Did you happen to bring a damned _dragon_ with you instead of wine?”

“No more than I could bring my missing fingers,” Davos mutters absently. He climbs to his feet, mind racing. There is no way this can be what it sounds like—they had seen the decaying corpse of Viserion at Winterfell, had heard of Rhaegal's bloodied fall from the sky into the ocean. The only living dragon in the world was the black behemoth that had breathed ruin onto King’s Landing—no more.

No more.

_The night is long, Ser Davos._

And that inescapable something, that dread and uncertainty that plagued him from the moment the bells rung in futility and only strengthened the moment he stepped into the cell, grows into a cacophony that threatens to deafen him, to send him to his knees, to tear him asunder.

But prophecies are damnable things. The night _ended_ and the day broke...only to burn, to burn, to _burn_.

He turns towards the door, almost unconsciously, violently shouldering past the guards with a sudden desperation. And before he realizes it, he is running and running and running.

And he prays to the gods old and new that he is wrong, that the prophecies were only words, that they had not been so completely and terribly _wrong_ about all of it.

Fire and blood.

Fire and ice.

And a night that had not ended so much as it had only begun to burn.


	4. The Thousand-Faced Assassin

Arya Stark is no stranger to anger, can drown the Seven Kingdoms in the trauma and hurt of her tainted past, but the disgust and loathing that surrounds this particular ember of rage is a different beast entirely.

She stalks through the near-empty halls of the Red Keep, memories of years past blown away by the corpses of Lannister soldiers, the ruckus of celebration from the Dothraki hordes, and the stone-hard gazes of the dozens and dozens of Unsullied she encounters. From arched doorways and windows empty of their dragonfire-blasted glasses the scent of scorched flesh and burning buildings wafts through.

The scent of victory.

Arya scowls.

She had agreed (not really) to wait for Jon outside of the city but the moment he had vanished from her sight, she had realized there was something else that had to be done. She has a destination in mind, a destination that is probably as scorched and decimated as the rest of the city, but her feet lead her there anyway. Her thoughts are swimming—she assumes they are muddled from the thousand and one hits she took as a proud city crumbled around her—but there is one thing that is sharp as Valyrian steel, an image she cannot shake.

Dragons.

Her brother is a dragon.

Her scowl deepens but now it is tinged with exhaustion.

She does not avoid the queen's soldiers as she skirts through the halls, hand gripping Needle bloodlessly at her side. If provoked, she will kill them. She almost relishes the promise of a battle, to let her anger and revulsion become a physical manifestation. She does not care what Jon would say, what Jon would believe to be the right thing. Her brother is a good man but he is blind. So blind.

_I know a killer when I see one._

To their credit, no one stops her.

If she could see beyond her black fury, she may have been surprised by how much of the winding corridors she remembers. She had been a child then, when Ned Stark was Hand of the King, idealistic and naive in a way she had often teased Sansa about (but god had they not all been foolish children to believe the world was fair and just and good?). But she remembers her dance lessons with Syrio and her fights with Sansa and her conversations with Father and the innocence and the shrieking crowds and the Sept of Baelor and everything that is gone, gone, _gone_.

She emerges from a long, darkened corridor into the hazy smoke-filled light of day. Just beyond she can see the unburned rise of the godswood.

Her hand unclenches from the hilt of the sword, and her fingers creak from their released death grip.

_You're a Stark of Winterfell - you know our words.  
_

Winterfell, burned and broken but not gone. She made sure of that herself. As she enters into the cool and dark expanse of the godswood, the smell of death does not follow her in, cannot reach here where the Old Gods still have their power. She briefly thinks of the red priestess and her god, of the Night King and the God of Death.

_You have no power here._

The godswood is untouched by the devastation outside. She is not sure what to make of that, is not sure why she felt the pull to be here. It doesn’t soothe her anger, doesn’t salve the rolling boil of aversion in the pit of her stomach. It was in a godswood where she killed a demon made of ice, where she ended the promised night before it had even scarcely begun.

But what was even the point, to save the world of men, when their so-called savior, with her dragons and her starlit hair and her madness, would kill thousands barely a few weeks later?

There is no weirwood in this godwood, merely an oak dripping crimson with dragon’s breath, red and red and red. Arya remembers when she first saw the dragon queen's massive beasts fly over the walls of Winterfell, remembers her delight and awe. She should have known then, should have tried to convince Jon of her suspicions. Even after the battle, even before the Raven told them that their half-brother was neither brother nor wolf, she had _tried_.

And now the dragon queen has the throne.

“She is everyone’s queen now,” Jon had told her, with little conviction. He knew as well as Arya did that Sansa would never stand for it, even if the queen had not incinerated innocents where they stood. Sansa would certainly not bend her head in obeisance to a woman from foreign shores who had barely known winter, who demanded fealty before she earned trust, who wielded her name and her birthright as a coiled whip to keep the masses in line.

For the battle against the hordes of undead, the Starks had momentarily acquiesced but no longer. Arya sees little reason why they should. And she sees even less reason why the dragon queen should keep her throne.

Her fingers curl around Needle’s hilt. She had come her to kill one queen—why not the one who proved herself more treacherous instead?

The one thing that causes her to hesitate is Jon’s parting words to her, advising her to wait outside the city for him. She had not listened—the pull towards the godswood was too strong—but now she wonders what he intends to do. It can hardly be to say goodbye--despite her insanity, Arya at least knows that the queen loves her brother. What she also knows is that the queen will take even the slightest suggestion of desertion or disloyalty and burn him as she had the rest of the city. Jon and Sansa and all of the Starks—they will always be a threat to her. The ice to her reign of terror and fire.

Would Jon know not to be so foolish as to walk directly into that trap? Or would he do what was right ( _she is not our queen, Jon, she will never be our queen, and you will never be a dragon, you are a Stark, you are, you are, you_ are) and put an end to all of this?

Arya feels doubt crawl up her spine.

She gazes up at the oak tree that is not a weirwood—a poor substitute for the gods of the North. The North has no power here, not in the south. Not in the realm of dragons and madmen. What hold did ice have over fire?

_Valyrian steel in her hand. Ice at her throat. The ringing sound of a dagger into the heart of winter._

_What do we say to the god of death?_

“Not today,” Arya breathes, as the stories unravel in her mind. These were prophecies and words of warnings, premonitions and dire promises. Winter is coming...but winter barely came and went. Fire and blood...a warning that no one heeded, hoping against hope that the beautiful girl with the dragons would not ignite the Targaryen madness in her blood.

The woman Jon had fallen in love with.

Fire and ice.

_Valar morghulis._

The doubt creeps further into Arya’s mind and she spins on her heel, her hand once again finding the sword given to her by a beloved brother. Something is burning in her mind, something that is both familiar and forgotten, a feral heat that she once knew so well. A part of her should be cowed by its intensity, the part that is still the wide-eyed girl who was fooled by the mummer queen’s dragons. But the part of her heart that is No One and everyone is shrieking a warning.

What is a mob to a queen? And what is a queen, except another corpse, to the god of death?

She does not run. And she does not meet the eyes of the army that slaughtered the city. Something is building in her, the animalistic sense of danger and dread. She can feel the pressure in the back of her mind, the breath taken before falling from the edge of a cliff into the sea. She cannot place it and yet she knows it all too well.

Arya Stark does not believe in prophecies.

And yet.

Her grip tightens on Needle as she winds her way towards the throne room—and hisses out a curse as she rounds a corner nearly at the same time as the man who leads the dragon queen's army.

She gracefully pivots around him and his sword, dancing away from his grasp, not caring whether he meant to subdue her or catch her fall (Arya never falls). He is more off-balance than she but she allows him to straighten, to meet her eyes.

A mercy.

She says nothing, because as far as she is concerned, he is already one of the many damned who has already taken one breath too many. A pawn soldier for the dragon queen, blinded under the guise of salvation.

“Arya Stark.” It is the only acknowledgement she knows she will get.

She is no lady.

“Murderer,” she instead replies in kind, her voice flat.

His expression does not flicker.

“I follow our Queen’s orders.”

“ _Your_ queen. Not mine.”

“She is everyone’s queen” comes the response and the words are so reminiscent of Jon’s that Arya almost cannot suppress the shudder that runs through her. She meets his stony gaze with one of her own, the eyes of the woman who killed the Night King. She is not afraid of this man and his false victor.

“I do not bow to tyrants.” She pauses and then adds, as if to clarify, “But apparently you do.”

She sees his grip tighten on his sword, can sense the tension rising in his body. She mimics the movement with Needle.

The part of howling that she needs to move, that she needs to find Jon and leave, hammers at the back of her mind but outwardly her face remains cold and impassive. Her eyes dart past him, to the throne room just beyond, as if he were nothing more than an annoying insect interrupting her day. _You followed her down this path. You are no better than she, to kill without cause._

Arya has killed too. From the stableboy to the Freys to the Night King - to save her own life, to enact revenge for Father and Mother and Robb and Talisa and Grey Wind, to save all of Westeros.

But not like this. Never like this.

“Standing against the Queen is treason.”

Arya’s eyes flash. Urgency scalds her mind as her lips tilt up into a humorless smile.

“Depends on where you stand,” she murmurs. She gestures at him, her only warning. “Let me pass.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

She does not need to tell him this. It would be very easy for her to slip by him, to slide a dagger across his throat, to slide Needle through his ribs. They are outnumbered, her and Jon and all the forces who have not thrown away their souls for the sake of the dragon queen.

But Arya Stark has faced worse odds.

The steel that rings through the hall is louder than thunder as she draws Needle from her scabbard. She has no qualms about this, will have no regrets with killing one of the queen's men.

She remembers the feeling of bitter triumph to watch House Frey pass into obscurity from her hand.

She remembers the helplessness and terror as she watched the light go out from Grey Wind’s eyes, the flat gaze she would later see from the same wolf’s head, nailed to her brother’s desecrated body.

She remembers the stableboy’s soft “oh”, her first kill.

And she remembers the little girl in the streets of King’s Landing, the girl and her mother and the screams and the charred husks that they had become.

The roar is deafening and she is no longer sure if the wolves and dragons that are howling are within her head or not.

_My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell..._

Grey Worm draws his sword.

 _...and I am going_ home _._


	5. The Dragon Queen and the North

The stench of fire and blood lingers in the air.

She walks through the silent halls, her faithful armies milling like ghosts around her, her breath and her heartbeat ( _too fast, too jittery, what has she to be afraid of_ ) her only true companions. Before there had been others but now it is just her and the ashes and the dust and this is somehow both freedom and enslavement.

A queen. She is a true queen now.

Her heart booms like a storm in her chest.

From the darkness, she emerges, the weight of what feels like a thousand years of suffering and turmoil and battles won and lost resting heavily on her shoulders. The throne room is empty, save for an audience of snow and shadows, and much of it has been reduced to rubble from the intensity of Drogon’s fires. Even as she walks forward, her gaze fixed on the monstrosity of steel and dragonfire in front of her, her footsteps are swallowed by the enormity of silence that engulfs her.

Beyond the Iron Throne there is only open sky.

It feels surreal to be standing in the looming shadow of everything she has ever fought for, everything that was ever promised to her, ever since those golden days in Braavos, an image of a red door seared into her memory. The stairs she climbs are an ascent of a different kind, a physical manifestation of her triumph over King’s Landing, over the Seven Kingdoms, her home, her claim, her right to rule as _queen_. Something indescribable latches in her heart as her fingers ghost over the pattern of blades twisted and melted into the seat of power in all of Westeros.

Victory.

_I freed my brother, and you slaughtered a city._

She closes her eyes against the brief flicker of rage, allows herself to imagine, only briefly, how different it would have been if her Bear was here, his sunburned and earnest face radiant with pride, loyal, always true, to the last breath. If Missandei, her faithful maidservant and closest friend, was standing by her side instead of a decapitated corpse already rotting in the ground. If Viserion and Rhaegal, instead of fated to reanimated bones and a watery grave, were circling overhead with their brother, the cries of dragonsong ringing out in triumph over Westeros for the first time in centuries.

If, if, if.

_If I look back, I am lost._

The look in her former Hand’s eyes had been damning. And when she turned to Jon, she half-expected (hoped?) to see the same condemning light in his eyes as well. In his eyes she saw a battle more tumultuous than any she had ever fought and she had turned on her heel to leave, willing her heart down from where it had lodged in her throat. It would have been easier if...

If, if, if...

She had been judged. And she had been found wanting.

But she had won.

She had _won_.

The vastness of that simple word unsettles her because it is the culmination of everything. Of the stories she had been told for years by Viserys when they were nothing but filthy beggars with more pride than wealth (her mother’s crown sold, the growing and cruel insanity in her brother’s eyes). Of the murmured words of knowing and praise in the grass seas (betrayal and assault and death following her at every turn, the whore khaleesi and her savages). Of the dreams she had spun as an enchantment, of birthrights and adoring masses and a beautiful and effervescent sense of homecoming.

Her fate. Her conquest.

She wants to laugh in delight.

She wants to cry.

But she is the blood of the dragon and...and…

And.

She hears footsteps behind her now, does not have to guess who it is. A dragon calling to a dragon, even if the latter had been a mystery for so long. No matter that he is a wolf as well—blood calls to blood. She knows. She will always know. Her heart is irrevocably tied to his.

A mercurial flash of memory—the King in the North, standing before her in her ancestral home, a dark-cloaked young man with a handsome and wary face, begging the impossible of her, refusing to kneel. Her initial fury. Her disgust and disbelief. Her curiosity too because he was not what she expected, his reality belying her experience of men whose faces were scarred deeply with years, men who were dark or scowling or treacherous or blithely smiling with lies on their lips.

But slowly...slowly…

She sees him again now, still a king in all but name, barely looking up at her as he once had. Rhaegar’s son, her blood, her _rival_. And yet (and here she still feels like a foolish girl, the one whose dreams and stories had swept her to the throne) she loves him. Despite all of it—the contention, the bitter words, the rift in trust—she cannot help but love him.

She senses his hesitation, the concern...

The fear.

_We are blood of the dragon and we will take what is ours, Jon Snow. Do not look at me this way. Do not judge me, do not pass the same sentence everyone else has, do not, do not, do not…_

His face is pained as he speaks, grasping for reason, for some _explanation_ to absolve her of her crimes. She knows it. She knows his hurt, can sense his heart tearing in two.

He must think her mad.

“You can forgive them all, make them see they made a mistake.”

A pause, filled with devastation and words unspoken. And longing.

So much longing…

“ _Please_.”

How he must hate her.

“Because I know what is good,” she murmurs around his pleas, his arguments, his desperate search for something _good_ within her. A part of her smokes with frustration and sadness and rage. _You speak and Tyrion’s words come out. Am I to lose everyone? Has the world come to judge the mad queen? I cannot do what you ask of me, I cannot show weakness. They will forgive you your errors as they will never forgive me. And you are damning me for it._ She forces a smile. “And so do you.”

_I have fought and I have bled and I…_

There it is. The hesitation again. The grief.

Oh, Jon.

“Be with me.” She must cling to this unspeakable force between them, this bond that is frightening in its enormity. For everything she has lost, now she must beg for this. Convince him to trust her again, even as the corpses lay smoldering beyond, smoke and death rising into a clear sky. “This is our reason. It has been from the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard’s name and I was a little girl who couldn’t count to twenty.”

 _Please_.

“We do it together. We break the wheel _together_.”

_If I look back, I am lost._

And somewhere, unbidden and lost and forgotten, both deeply familiar and utterly alien, a man’s voice flickers through her thoughts.

_“His will be the song of ice and fire..."_

She wants to weep. She can only smile.

She reaches for him and he is steady and more real than her triumph that still smolders and burns beyond the walls of the throne room. And their kiss tastes like blood and smoke and death and promise and every unspoken beautiful thing that is great and small in the world.

_You are mine and I am yours. Do not look at me as though I am lost._

_I have never been lost._

Fire and blood.

Fire and ice.

 _Together_.

And then, like the breaking of dawn over a blood-soaked battlefield, the remnants of night howling, the earth _trembling_ , the world splinters and breaks and shatters into a million pieces and all of it comes rushing forth in dragonfire and winter winds and all the songs and stories and magic and death and all of the terrible things that were and would ever be, down and down and down...

Daenerys Targaryen closes her eyes.

* * *

To the north, in the far-reaching blue shadows of the Wall, the first inclination Tormund Giantsbane has that something is wrong is the pinprick of uncertainty that teases the back of his neck.

Of course, as he is wont to do, he buries that odd feeling beneath boisterous laughter and booming commands, trying to wrangle some sense of order amongst the throng of wildlings inching closer and closer to the Wall itself. If he is busy with this unruly lot, he will not step to consider the ghostly sense of wrongness and foreboding that floats like a wraith in the back of his mind. And besides, even if their numbers are nowhere near the masses that had marched under Mance, there are still enough of them left after the battles to give any kneeler passing-by pause.

If only this bloody wolf of Jon Snow’s would _also_ ignore whatever was bothering him.

He glances down at the aforementioned wolf that has paused next to him. He still thinks it a strange sight to see the beast without the man but his adventures south of the Wall proved that nothing made sense in the world of kneelers. Surviving the long night (and one night is not what the tales seemed to indicate, what heading south with Mance and his masses was worth, Hardhome fell in the same amount of time and _without_ dragons but Tormund was never one for stories) seemed to be only a distraction in their game of thrones.

Politics is a fucking monster.

So he did the one thing that he could do - he bade farewell to Jon Snow (see there, a bastard made king and there are those _stories_ ) and took the freefolk home.

He gazes up at the Wall, half a mile distance and still foreboding as all hells in the waning winter storm, and lets out a low whistle. “Wasn’t that long ago that we were trying to get on _this_ side of the bloody thing.” He looks at Ghost and snorts. “Or that your friend was calling himself a crow and trying to beat us into submission with honor.”

It had been the truth, what he said in parting—the former Lord Commander belongs in the true north, the wilds of Westeros. But Tormund can also not deny the sight of the man on the dragon or the weariness that etched his young face, troubled by death and war and responsibility. The untamed frozen shores—winter and ice—may have resided in him but so does too much southern honor.

And of course, he is fucking the Dragon Queen.

Tormund sighs. The lad certainly had better luck than he did.

The sting of rejection does not hurt as much as it did when the woman initially made her choice (and Tormund grudgingly admits that this choice had been made long before he had entered into the picture) but he had still hope to steal her from beneath the golden knight’s grasp. But the aftermath of battles and the sheer joy of not being a blue-eyed corpse filled men with lust and...well.

He can see the towers and parapets and leaning timbers of Castle Black, even through the softly falling snow. Despite the calmness of the snowfall ( _screeching steel and fire and walking corpses and a storm that enveloped them all_ ), that prickly sense of unease grows a little stronger. The clouds are low and grey and pregnant in the sky, usually an indicator of an impending gale but the worst of winter has passed. The night has ended.

And yet...

A low growl and a flash of white fur at his side causes Tormund’s jaw to clench again, even as the direwolf suddenly bolts off into the crowd. He hears a few surprised shouts but quickly loses track of the beast—probably smelled some prey just east of them. There’d be plenty of that once they made it past the barrier of ice.

No matter. He is ready to leave it all behind, to go back to life before the wars and the nightmares. He looks about him, at the chattering fur-clad crowds, of freefolk and of more than a few kneelers who had decided to flee the tiresome games of the lords and ladies and head towards the white expanse of the north. After all, what was there to fear now that the Night King and his Walkers and all of the undead had burned at Winterfell?

One of the kneelers—a crow and isn’t that a laugh that they’ve gone from the freefolk’s sworn enemies to mere gatekeepers—approaches him, his jaw set not in animosity but in deep thought. Tormund hasn’t bothered to learn his name (Ser Something-or-Other sums up most of the men he has met south of the wall, titles of knights be damned), and he only gives a grunt as a greeting.

“It may be a few days yet before you can pass through,” Ser Something-or-Other says, briefly looking up at the sky, squinting through the soft but heavy fall of snow. “Looks like one more winter storm to kiss us goodbye. And good riddance. I’ve enough of winter storms to last me a lifetime.”

Tormund’s secondary grunt is noncommittal. Ser Something-or-Other grins, his scarred face twisting into something that might have once been roguish handsomeness.

“Back to our battles then?”

And somehow the mere idea makes him very, very tired.

He is about to respond when he hears commotion in the direction that Jon’s wolf ran in. Frowning, he turns towards the noise, as the disruption continues to grow. He hopes the damned beast hadn’t hauled an elk into the middle of the crowd—or worse, taken off the leg of some stupid sapling trying to take on a direwolf.

He starts to head in the direction, Ser Something-or-Other trailing after him, when he hears it. Over the commotion ( _the beginning of panic, he can suddenly sense it, something fearful and growing and wrong and that uneasy blossoms through his entire being_ ) sharp booming crashes of the world breaking. Of something larger and older than time itself tearing itself asunder.

Ser Something-or-Other gives him a look. “What the bloody hell…?”

But this is familiar and there is coldness in the pit of his stomach and he finds himself, for one of the few times in his life, at a loss for words because it was done, it was all done, how how _how_...

He raises his eyes towards the Wall. And looks _up_.

And this time there is no horde of blue-eyed corpses, there is no supernatural creature goading on a decaying dragon—but there it is all the same, the cracks in the foundation through the winds and the snow and every cold and bitter thing that has ever existed in the world. The earth trembles, shaken by some magic unseen (the shriek of warning within him, a howling wolf, a horn blown), and suddenly there is screaming and running and mass chaos and panic as the world of ice suddenly begins to crash down in front of his eyes.

“Oh fuck.”

The Wall is coming down.

* * *

The scream of the second dragon stops Davos at the entrance of the throne room.

The closer he had approached, the more his concern and his fear and his doubt grew, the louder the dragon screamed. He cannot tell the emotions of dragons—they’re bloody _loud_ beasts—but something in the shrill cry rattles him to his bones. And Davos has seen too many things, too many dark and unnatural things, to be shaken by the wail of a dragon.

He steps into the throne room.

It is utterly decimated, havoc wreaked by the fires of one dragon and his queen. Snow and ash continue to rain down from blasted roof and the empty sky, coating the floor and the dais and blackened beams and ruined timbers (a giant smashing a child’s dollhouse, blood and bone and fragile and mortal). He walks in silently, the mixture of death and destruction on marbled floors muffling his steps.

But even he cannot shake the feeling of something in the air, something he remembers from shadows in the crypts, from Melisandre's night fires, from defending Winterfell's walls from the undead. Ancient magic, swollen and powerful, breaking. It pricks at his skin like a thousand ice shards and he almost chokes on it as he walks further into the ruins.

Ahead, a queen and a king.

But…

The queen is turned towards him, half-hidden and looking skyward, an expression of dazed amazement and deep infinite grief on her face. There is almost a childlike look of a shock and delight warring for dominance on her beautiful features--she has heard the dragon, her child, the one that fell from the sky, screaming into the sea. It is impossible—so impossible—to see her this way and still see the traces of madness and fury that only a few hours before led her to burn the city to the ground.

In this girl, the cruel woman is nothing but a ghost.

Jon’s back remains turned away from him.

“Your Grace.” Davos finds his voice, somehow, through the tightness that grips his chest. He can sense the sheer amount of power coming from both of them, archaic spells unraveling, that same sense of foreboding he has felt at the crawling of shadows and of sapphire-eyed demons.

_What has happened?_

The queen’s eyes lower from their skyward gaze—he sees the pinpricks of tears, of grief, of unabashed _joy_ on her face—and he remembers Tyrion’s warning, what Tyrion had sent Jon to _do_ , and something twists in his stomach.

Jon does not turn.

Davos clears his throat. “It seems as if your dragon...” The dead one (the _other_ dead one), the one whose fires should be quenched by the sea, impossible, and flying. He stops, shakes his head. “You will want to see to him. It seems a damned thing that he rose from the sea.”

The queen stares at him for a long moment. She looks confused, her eyes quickly darting back up to the sky, and then down at the ashes and dust, flickering as if in thought. Her lips move as if in prayer.

“Only death can pay for life…”

“Your Grace?”

Her gaze snaps back up to him and the stunned wonder and confusion vanishes from her face as she finally seems to take him in. Her jaw clenches in resolve and she turns her attention back to the man who still holds her in his arms, his back still turned towards Davos. A smile on her face now, sweet and almost shy, and it is as if Davos is no longer in the room.

That same unease— _fire and ice, two sides of the same coin, a coin that has never come down, a night that has not ended, flipping and flipping and flipping—_ settles in his throat as he watches Jon raise a hand to touch the side of his queen’s face, halting her momentarily.

“I must see him, Jon,” he hears her murmur, barely concealed excitement tinging her voice, as she begins walking past him.

And as she brushes his shoulder, Jon turns, the queen’s hand still grasped in his, and Davos sees his face for the first time.

The steel kiss of wrongness, the sorcery and the apprehension, that had buried itself in his chest, in his heart, erupts into flames.

This is the face of a stranger.

Jon’s eyes, dark and strange in their aloofness, slowly move from the queen to Davos, and it is almost as if there is no recognition, no agitation, nothing of the burden and confusion and anxiety that has weighed him down for weeks. His expression is shuttered, remote, almost cold, and it is an alien thing to see on the face of a man who wore his emotions so clearly on his face. And Davos _knows_ this look, has surely seen it somewhere before ( _and with it the promise of winter winds and eternal ice and a night that does not end but no that’s wrong, that’s not it, that’s not him_ ) but before he can say a word, Jon has grasped the queen again, hand at the back of her head, almost tender. He kisses her, something pure and simple and still profound and passionate in its meaning and Davos realizes belatedly that they had it all wrong, he knew, he _knew…_

_This is the face of a Targaryen._

“Be careful,” Jon warns, thumb grazing the queen's lips. His eyes flicker back to Davos.

Darkness. Sorcery.

_No..._

“There are wolves about.”

And then she is gone and Davos is left standing in the ruins of greatness with the man he once called a king.


	6. The Fallen Son and the Honorable Knight

It could, Tyrion Lannister thinks dourly, be much, much worse.

He has seen his city burn. He has seen the queen he thought he could trust incinerate thousands of innocents, his siblings among them (sharp biting pain here, _oh Jaime, you fool, you bloody fool_ ). He has made one disastrous military decision after another, giving horrible advice and throwing the Queen's clear advantage in the war to the wind. He is still named a kinslayer and a kingslayer in some circles. Because of his errors, he is certain to face the same fiery fate as the only friend he ever had. And even as he contemplates all of this, he has no wine to drown his anguish and self-loathing in.

_But at least, for now, I’m still alive._

Whatever that is worth.

Davos had fled soon after a dragon—the second one, a dead one ( _but only the Night King can revive a dragon_ ), and wasn’t that just the fucking thing—had rattled the storeroom-turned-cell, and has not returned. He is not sure what to make of that, either the fleeing or the dragon. He finds that if he thinks about anything too hard, tries to review his countless upon countless mistakes, about what is occurring beyond the confines of this cell, he wants to bring the world and everything in it to a stop. Everything hurts, everything is failure, and beyond these walls, there is life and death and more confusion and he is so tired of it all.

Oh _Jaime_.

It isn’t as if this is the first person he has lost. There’s his mother, of course—a ghost who haunted him from the moment she expelled him, and her hold on life, from her belly in a flood of blood and ichor. Then there is Tysha. His first wife, his first love (and her hair was not the moonlit sheen of a Targaryen and she did not have the madness but oh how Tyrion had _loved_ her, in that brief moment of time when nothing in his life was shit but of course it wouldn’t last, fool fool _fool_ ). 

There are men he had led to their deaths on the Blackwater, other men who died after Catelyn Stark’s stubborn folly and accusations of guilt. He never wept for them—why should he? He is a Lannister (the only Lannister left, the others brought low by violence and disease, poison and backstabbing, and oh how his father’s thrice-damned corpse must be turning in its rotting grave, at the mere idea that the son he hated and reviled and condemned stands as the only golden child left, how ironic, how _funny_ ).

He does not dwell on Shae (he hates her, he loves her, she is not worth his memory).

And here he is now, at the end of the cold days of winter, having survived all things, and his life is now once again in the hands of a mad queen.

_When did you become so weak, Lannister?_

Tyrion is tired of fighting. It makes sense that he would send Jon Snow to do what he did not have the strength (nor courage) to do himself. What could a dwarf do to a woman with a dragon as a pet? Make a very tempting dish, served with fiery Dornish peppers and honeyed Arbor wine. No, Jon Snow had the honor and the decency to at least try to save his sisters from the wrath of the woman he loves. No one probably ever thought that stubborn honor of the Starks would actually ever come in handy.

A twinge of guilt. Tyrion looks down at his hands.

It has to be done, he knows. 

_It’s easy to judge when you’re standing far from the battlefield._

Tyrion let outs a soul-deep sigh, his hands curling into fists. It is not judgement so much as knowledge, hard-gained and bitter knowledge that they have made a terrible mistake in supporting this woman who was destined for this fate anyway. From Aerys to Robert to Joffrey to Tommen to Cersei to (hopefully briefly) another Targaryen, the realm has bled and burned and sobbed enough for the follies of a thousand kings. Jon Snow has the respectability of a Stark with the right pedigree—perhaps he is not the one any of them would’ve chosen at the beginning but he is the king that can perhaps keep the Seven Kingdoms from bleeding out in a gutter.

_You are the shield that guards the realms of men. And you’ve always tried to do the right thing._

Tyrion leans back against the wall. _The shield that guards the realms of men_...how ironic that Night's Watch oath would mean not only defending the realm from the demons of ice in the north but of the fiery insanity of Targaryens to the south. Tyrion briefly remembers the idea that he would be sent to the Wall, following Joffrey’s death and his sham of a trial. He cannot think of a man less fitted for the duty.

“Night gathers and now my watch begins,” he murmurs to no one. If he has sent Jon to deliver the death stroke to his lover, is he also truly a guardian of the realm? Or, as she said, coldness in her eyes and her voice, a traitor? “It shall not end until my death.” (He almost laughs here but it sounds even to his ears like a sob). “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men...for this night and all nights to come.”

But the night has come and gone. Or rather, they’ve exchanged one terror for another. Ice for fire. The walking dead for the demonic dragon. One nightmare, neverending.

It is almost funny, that. The reign of ice was ended by the Starks, the reign of fire will also hopefully be ended by the Starks. There is some poetic irony in that...if Jon can kill her.

_Duty is the death of love._

He closes his eyes, resting his head back against the wall. Outside he can hear the song of two dragons. Before it would have thrilled him as nothing had before. And now he is too exhausted to be confused by it. Old magic, all of it. From the lack of shouts and screaming outside, he can only assume that it isn’t spewing blue fire like the corpse burned in the north. It may have been intriguing to figure out the puzzle.

But Tyrion is old and tired and so very done with all of it now. Let the queen kill him. As he told Jon Snow, oblivion would be a respite from this sorry state of affairs.

Somehow, impossibly, he must briefly fall asleep ( _troubled and dark and only chasing a dim torch held by a tall golden man, disappearing into the shadows, Jaime Jaime Jaime_ ) because the next thing he knows, he is jerking awake at the sound of footsteps and angry muffled voices outside of the storeroom door. The words are hushed and urgent and entirely in Valyrian and Tyrion strains to hear anything. Certainly not Davos—the smuggler speaks less Valyrian than Tyrion himself does—but can it be…? Could Jon have…?

The door swings open and Tyrion blinks blearily against the onslaught of light, holding up his arm to shield his eyes.

There are the two guards, of course, stone-faced and cold. Another man is with them, his face thrown into shadows by the backlight of the door. 

Tyrion smells blood. Fresh blood. 

His head reels.

“Three men to escort one dwarf to his death,” he manages to say, rising to his feet, slowly, clumsily—his legs are painfully cramped. He squints at their faces. If Jon has succeeded in executing the Queen, would they run him through with their spears here and now? An ignominious death but...something about this scenario ( _and the smell of blood, roasting flesh, burning, screaming, fire and blood_ ) has him hesitate. “Does the Queen consider it an honor?” he ventures, watching them closely. This tableau is not normal. Something is wrong.

The man in the middle, the one who is not his guard, twists his face into a scowl. Belatedly, Tyrion realizes the smell of blood is coming from him—he glances at the floor beneath the man and sees red, crimson red, not a pool, but the slow steady drip of multiple wounds. Perhaps not a scowl then—a grimace of pain.

“Your tongue is the death of you.”

Ah yes. That is a voice he recognizes. 

“I find that many people tell me that,” Tyrion replies to Grey Worm ( _why is he even here and not with the Queen_ ) with calm suspicion. “Many of those people are now dead. But I suppose my time was borrowed.”

“The Queen has not yet decided your fate.” The words do not have their attended effect though—in the half light and shadows and from his lower perspective, Tyrion sees the slightest waver in his movements and his confusion and alarm grows from mere whisper to the roar of one of the dragons outside. The Unsullied were a near undefeatable fighting force, their complete and apparent aversion to fear and pain well known. This unsteadiness, however slight, is profound, telling, and Tyrion feels something ring with alarm inside of him. 

Someone had wounded the man.

_Who is more dangerous than the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?_

_You have to choose now._

Tyrion feels his mouth go dry. He forces himself to say, “It takes a great man to wound one of the Queen’s Unsullied. Or an undead one. As we left the latter in Winterfell, I suspect a great man is either roaming the castle or dead. A shame that we have so few great men left.”

Waits. 

Silence. A trickle of sweat down the nape of his neck.

And then…

One of the guards throws a heavy sack into the room at Tyrion’s feet. Taken aback, he reels back a few inches. The sack is large but not terribly so, vaguely human-shaped and pale and…

No.

Not a sack.

A girl, bloodied and unconscious.

Arya Stark.

He looks up at the man who threw her into the cell with him, just as bloody but rather less unconscious. There are a thousand questions in his mind but his mouth, as always, decides to pipe up first. 

“It is probably not a good look to beat the savior of the living senseless.”

Grey Worm scowls--a real scowl this time since Tyrion has always prided himself in his ability to cause people’s annoyance to override their own pain. The soldier turns, giving instructions in sharp Valyrian to the two guards, and walks out of the room. The door closes, the keys rattle, and Tyrion is left alone in the darkness with an unconscious assassin.

Wonderful.

He knows what this could mean. If Grey Worm, one of the Queen's men, attacked a Northerner (and not just any Northerner, but the one who slayed the Night King, a lady assassin whose House is the most venerated in the entire North), there will be hell to pay. He glances at Arya's prone form, the nasty bruise on the side of her face that he can see even in the faint light. The North is already chafing at the prospect of the Queen's rule, and he is sure that ravens have begun to fly towards Winterfell to tell of the tale of destruction that the Queen has wrought. And once they heard, once _Sansa_ knew...

This would be a death knoll.

A resurrected dragon, a beaten Stark girl, a King whom he sent to kill the Queen...

Silence from Jon. The twin roars of Drogon and Rhaegal, shaking the room.

This is treason.

This is war.

He sits back against the wall, abandoned, alone, condemned, waiting for dawn or his execution or for Arya Stark to wake, whichever came first.

* * *

Ser Brienne of Tarth watches the raven on its perch on the windowsill, snowflakes melting on its glossing black feathers, as its own gaze never wavers from the young man in the bed.

She’d think nothing of it, _tries_ to think nothing of it (monsters and demons and seers and all the terrible things of the north), and turns her attention back to the girl—woman—sitting on the edge of the boy’s bed. It is a tableau from a story that Brienne has heard before, back in the days when she was still in service to Lady Catelyn. A fall. A dreamless slumber. A wolf.

An assassin.

The knife in question (the knife to kill a seer, to kill a blue-eyed demon) is somewhere beyond Brienne’s knowledge and she is certain that she is better off not knowing. These past few weeks—months, years, everything—have been an exhausting time, though Brienne is quite sure the worst of it has passed. The battle for the living surprisingly turned out to be a mere stepping stone towards the Dragon Queen’s last great battle (though Brienne counts herself as fortunate to have removed herself from it). Now will come the time of diplomacy and another round of the game of thrones.

If they ever hear back from those who went down to King’s Landing, that is.

That line of thought is dangerous though (a kiss, warmth, a cruel man) and she snatches her attention away from the raven and turns back towards two of the remaining Stark children.

There is technically no need for her to stand watch here—observing how the rebuilding efforts are going would be a better use of her time, she thinks. But her Lady had called her to this bedchamber earlier, though since she has yet to speak a word, Brienne has little notion as to why. Perhaps fear of that old story coming to pass in a new day still haunts her. 

But Brienne is nothing but dutiful so she stands by the window and waits and tries not to think of green eyes and a rakish smile and a kiss and that warmth spreading from her core, doused in ice...

“Has Samwell Tarly brought back any message from the capital?” Her lady’s voice, carefully devoid of emotion, breaks the silence, and Brienne starts slightly. She shakes her head, even though her lady does not turn to look at her.

“No, my lady.” She knows it is not a question regarding a reply to their current situation--just sent, dark wings, dark words, impossible to know when they’ll hear back about _that--_ but of how the campaign to overthrow Cersei in her power. Brienne does not voice her concern about the silence, knows that it will only add to her lady’s distress. Her own distress ( _oh Jaime…_ ). “I am sure we will know shortly how your brother and the queen fared.”

Her lady is silent again. She reaches for her brother’s hand, grasps it.

The message from the Shadow Tower had been bleak but curiously vague. Brienne only supposes that the damage done to the far eastern portion of the Wall finally reached its counterpart to the west, taking the form of splinters and cracks along the Wall’s great northern and southern faces. There had been no reports of injury, no message that great chunks of it had come barreling down. 

But for the message to come so soon after the Raven’s sudden lapse into unconsciousness (“ _Jon_!”) and with still no word from the south…

Brienne shifts. “If it pleases you, my lady, we can send another raven to your brother.”

The moment of silence extends so long that Brienne is almost certain that the young Stark woman will not answer. When she does respond, her words are curious.

“Did you know that I once had a direwolf of my own, Ser Brienne?” Her voice is soft, faraway almost. “I named her Lady. Father killed her to appease Joffrey and Cersei.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Brienne ventures, “...yes. Your mother spoke of it. 

This is another story, one Lady Catelyn had told her in passing when they were fleeing from Renly’s camp (Renly mourned, Renly avenged, and yet her heart…a smile and a laugh and gone, a hateful man). She knows now the puzzle pieces as they all jammed together, Starks against Lannisters, chaos wrought by a man from the Fingers, in attempts to rule, to control, to rise above his station...and to be brought low by the children of the very woman he had once loved. But this is hindsight, different from the confused quiet and acquiescence she had given Catelyn Stark in those dark days of the fighting kings.

Hindsight and the graveyard of years.

Sansa finally pulls her attention away from her brother, mild surprise in her eyes. Brienne does not know why but she plows on, “There were direwolves for each of you, she said.” A moment of concentration, dredging up memories from a lifetime ago. “Six wolves for six Stark children, from the belly of a dead direwolf that was killed by a stag.”

Baratheon versus Stark. Lannister versus Stark. 

Targaryen versus Stark.

Brienne barely hides a shudder. “Do you miss her, my lady? Is that why…?”

The surprise dissipates from Sansa’s eyes and she turns away. There is faint bitterness in her tone when she speaks. “I barely had her. A few months at most. Certainly not like the others. Certainly not enough time to…” She stops abruptly, lips pressed into a thin colorless line. “You’re wrong, Ser Brienne. It was five Stark children. And a Targaryen prince in hiding apparently.” She shakes her head and lets out a humorless chuckle. “And all of them dead, except for Ghost. Grey Wind died with Robb, Shaggy with Rickon, Summer in the lands beyond the Wall, Lady so many years ago. I suppose Nymeria is gone now too. What does that mean for us?”

A rhetorical question? Brienne is not one for prophecies or omens. Magic and sorcery is one thing—and certainly she has a mild belief in the gods, as much as one can when their entire life feels like a cruel jest of some trickster god’s whim—but anything else is beyond what Brienne can care about. Why entangle the concept of fate and portents when life itself was already cruel and unpredictable enough?

Aloud, she only says, “I do not know, my lady. But you and your brother and your sister have survived wars when many cannot say the same. You are one of the few Great Houses still standing.”

“You cannot discount the cousins of the families that fell,” replies Sansa, her tone distracted. “The Great Houses do not go down so easily…”

There is something in her voice that makes Brienne glance back at the raven still perched on the windowsill, its dark eyes watching her now curiously, as if to say, _and you, what do you think_? It is something Brienne is not even remotely comfortable with pondering—another war, more blood, more battles...

_And a decaying brutal wave of rotted corpses, unearthly noises against fire, cold dead hands reaching for her throat, blue eyes that burned like starlight, and the dead screaming and screaming and screaming…_

“We did the impossible, my lady,” Brienne says quietly. “We won the war against the dead. Any battle beyond that is...negligible by comparison.”

“If that was ever the true battle.”

Brienne frowns. It was not often that her lady agreed with the Dragon Queen on some point and yet there is something in her thoughtful, almost absent-minded tone that makes the knight hesitate to even say that she is agreeing this time. 

_“We have won the Great War. Now we will win the Last War.”_

If men continue to live and breathe, would there ever truly be a last war? And with the North already bucking under the supposed rule of a Targaryen, could anyone suppose that the Seven Kingdoms would meekly bow to their savior, when so many had not even seen the destructive power of the Night King’s army? 

“My lady..."

“I apologize, ser,” Sansa interrupts. “But it has been some time since I’ve heard from Sam Tarly. I worry about the silence from the capital. Is Podrick nearby?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the raven take flight.

“I will look for the Tarly man, my lady,” Brienne says with a respectful nod of her head. There are too many stories in this room. And there is just something about her lady’s distracted attention on her brother that disturbs her.

_You think too much, wench._

_Brienne…_

A smile. A kiss and green eyes, desperation, Jaime holding her, kissing her, inside her...

_She’s hateful. And so am I._

The blast of cold winter air that strikes her face upon emerging into the courtyard is a welcome reprieve to the warmth of the castle walls and the bedchamber. The scent of decay and burning flesh is still heavy in the air but not nearly as cloying as it was in those days following the great battle. But Brienne supposes that just as much as the Riverlands’ fertile soils were drenched in the blood of the war over the crown, it will be even more years before the stench of death disappears from Winterfell’s walls.

Snow lightly coats her hair as she crosses the courtyard to where she knows Samwell Tarly has possibly fled to send another flock of ravens to the capital. However, she finds herself halting as a commotion by the gate draws her attention.

The gate itself was battered by the corpse of a giant during the battle and only now somewhat resembles something that could pass as a functional entrance. It still creaks open slowly and a half dozen men around it curse as a few timbers crash down from the upper regions of the archway, blocking the gate from opening all the way. After a few moments, one of the burlier men—a Bear Islander, she thinks—wrenches the gate the rest of the way open, allowing for two riders to enter.

Brienne doesn’t know why she begins walking towards the gate (news from King’s Landing means news about Cersei means news about Jaime and oh Gods Jaime…) but she finds herself striding through the muddy courtyard anyway.

The riders are an odd pair certainly: a young woman who looks vaguely familiar, curly brown hair visible even beneath her fur-lined hood, and a man whom Brienne is certain she has never seen before. He is an older man, lithe and average, with a pale face that may have once been handsome in youth but is now lined with age and weariness. He does not have the look of a fighter about him and she cannot recall if she saw his face amongst the masses defending Winterfell. One of the storm or riverlords mayhaps?

The young woman dismounts first, with a spryness that her companion surprisingly mimics.

Strangers, Brienne thinks. Before she can open her mouth, the older man turns to her, his dark eyes sparkling. “I had wondered...but no. I see it with my own eyes. Good morrow, ser.” 

_Who…?_ Brienne narrows her eyes. “What business have strangers in Winterfell?”

It is the girl with a familiar face who speaks first. “Is Bran well?”

This time, Brienne cannot disguise her confusion. “Pardon?”

“Please excuse my daughter,” the man says with a faint smile as he hands the reins of their horses to a stableboy. “I’m afraid she and the little Stark lord did not part on the best of terms.” He approaches her now, his eyes still crinkled at the edges with a smile that Brienne does not understand. “You will have to forgive us for not coming to Winterfell during her hour of need. I hope that that lady of Winterfell is inclined to listen to our explanation as to why.”

Brienne sees the girls eyeing the ramparts and the walkways crowning the courtyard, her attention and mind clearly elsewhere.

_Is Bran well?_

_Who_ are _these people?_

“Whom should I say requests the attention of my lady?”

The man smiles again, this time a little sadder.

“An old friend of Eddard Stark’s. My name is Howland Reed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have mentioned this in some comment responses but these past six chapters have all run concurrently, taking place in several different locations over one to two hours. Consider the first half dozen chapters a very long and extended chapter.
> 
> Apologies in advance to all the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms for this fic. I know y'all are sick of wars.
> 
> Next chapter: The Novice Maester


	7. The Novice Maester

The ravens sitting in the rookery have been ominously quiet all afternoon, and it is starting to unnerve Samwell Tarly.

He finishes the scroll he is working on, stretching his cramped fingers. The worst of winter has come and gone but there is a chill in the rookery that has settled into his extremities that he cannot get rid of. He only mentions it in passing to Gilly, knows that the cold probably bothers her much worse now that she has his baby in her belly (oh, Sam hopes it is a girl, how much he would adore a girl). Soon they’ll make their way to warmer climates, away from the nightmares in the north, perhaps for the final time. So he really shouldn’t complain all _that_ much.

Sam glances over at the ravens again. None have come from the capital yet, and it is starting to worry him. It has been nearly three weeks since Jon left, three weeks of near silence, save for the message that came regarding the triumph of the Greyjoy fleet, the death of one of the dragons, and Missandei’s capture, confirmed later by Bran. He knows Jon should have arrived in the city days ago, along with the northern armies. But there has been nothing—absolutely nothing—from either him or Tyrion or worse, Cersei herself, gloating over her victory.

There has, of course, been a missive from the Wall, and the few black brothers who made it back to the Shadow Tower (for what purpose, he is not sure. Habit, perhaps, he doesn’t know). He hasn’t given much thought to it—a few massive cracks would be inevitable, even over the course of hundreds of miles, if Eastwatch collapsed. The Wall is old and has stood for thousands of years. The danger has passed. There is nothing beyond the Wall anymore except for some rowdy wildlings.

He pretends that he doesn’t keep saying that to convince himself all was right. That battle against all the terrors of winter is going to be in his nightmares for a very, very long time. And the woman Jon loves—the woman who murdered his family—would be on the throne.

_Would you have done it?_

Sam stands, wincing as the more stubborn bruises on his person protest the abrupt movement. Sansa—Lady Stark—had told him to send another raven to King’s Landing, knew somehow that something major had happened in the capital. He remembers her drawn, pale features, her brother’s slumped form in her arms, remembers the way the Raven had gasped Jon’s name before collapsing, the way Sansa had doubled over as if in empathetic pain herself. It still bothers him, both of their reactions. Yes, something has clearly happened in the capital and the continued silence has done nothing except unnerve them all, but for the Raven and for Sansa herself to be suddenly be stricken by pain, as if connected to whatever events were happening hundreds and hundreds of miles away…

_I’ve been around Ghost enough to know a direwolf when I see one._

He grimaces. It is too much to think about now. First things first.

As he approaches one of the cages, his gaze wanders over to the stack of parchment papers on the other table, the stack of books nearby. It is a fool’s thing, he thinks, taken up in the desperate, adrenaline-fueled frenzied morning following the attack on Winterfell, sobbing with joy from being _alive_ and desperate to write it all down. The whole thing is a passing fancy, though he wonders who else would take the time to do it, to scour the books and to record the years and years of battles succinctly. There will be more books at the Citadel though, more about all of this than he cares to remember offhand. He rubs at his face, picking up one of the books. The Starks’ library had been one of the many casualties of the war—first when Theon and the Boltons overran it and now to the rampant destruction of the Night King’s army—but some books, shoved in alcoves deep and dark and mostly forgotten, have managed to survive.

This book— _Passages of the Dead—_ is ponderous and drier than a septon’s sense of humor, and Sam has wasted more than one candle attempting to make his way through the dusty old pages, earning himself nothing except a headache from his constant squinting. Beneath it are a few more books that may prove to be better resources to his own writing— _Winter’s Kings_ , _Watchers on the Wall_ , and one book whose cover and first several pages have burned off but a brief glimpse through tells Sam that is has something to do with the Targaryens.

Although _none_ of it will matter if the silence from the south continues.

Sam frowns, turning to attach the scroll in his hands to one of the ravens sitting in its cage, looking at him as if affronted by his appearance.

“I know I keep asking you to make the journey,” Sam apologizes, wrenching the cage open with a high-pitched creak. The raven inside puffs itself up in annoyance and fixes Sam with a beady glare. Sam winces. “Yes, yes, I know. But the lady of Winterfell is requesting it this time. So no more empty promises. We need to hear back from Jon. Or Tyrion. Or...someone. Maybe Davos? If they’re not dead, of course. But preferably not Queen Daenerys—she is...ah. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? We all probably look the same to you. If it’s alright with you though, I’d also rather you not bring back news from Queen Cersei. She’s rather mad.”

The raven looks unimpressed with his rambling.

Sam reaches into the cage to draw the raven out, well aware of the black eyes of its brethren that have settled on his back. It makes him think of Bran (or rather the Three-Eyed Raven and oh he hopes there is something in one of those books about _that_ ). That fathomless gaze on the boy seer’s face is eerie, though just awhile ago, on the walkways surrounding the courtyard, Sam could have sworn...he almost thought…

“You’re going to strangle that bird if you keep holding it like that.”

Sam yelps and the raven lets out a sharp reproachful croak of irritation, flying from Sam’s hand to one of the beams overhead, a stray black feather slowly spiraling to the ground. The raven makes some disgruntled noise and then turns its back onto Sam, preening its feathers with all the ruffled dignity that a bird can muster.

His heart in his throat (god didn’t people know better than to just sneak up on others so soon after they were all fighting for their lives against _dead men_ ), he turns to see a pale, slight girl in the doorway of the rookery, looking up at the wayward raven. She is dressed as if she has been traveling for some ways, from her mud-speckled boots to the gray cloak slung over her arm to her damp mass of brown curls, still lightly sprinkled with a few fat melting snowflakes. Her dark eyes drift from the raven down to Sam, and the edge of her lips quirk up in a half-smile.

“Sam of the Night’s Watch.”

Sam stares at her for a long moment. A dusty memory, from years and years ago, before all of it went so terribly wrong...a desperate flight in the middle of the night...running from the North...an abandoned castle...a promise made...

He blinks.

“I remember you. You were with Bran at the Nightfort.”

The girl’s smile—Meera Reed, gods it has been _so_ long—grows just a little. “I had a knife to your throat then. It would make me memorable, wouldn’t it?” She walks into the room, glancing around at the ravens in all of the cages and the mess of papers and books on the table at the center of the rookery and along its perimeter. “Are you Winterfell’s maester now?”

“I- oh. No. No, I’m not.” Sam follows her gaze around the room. “We, uh...haven’t heard anything from the south. So I was sending a raven.”

“From the south?” she asks, and Sam has the feeling that it is only a question asked of politeness. Something about the way she doesn’t meet his gaze and the tone of her voice suggests that she already knows what he is going to say.

“Yes,” he answers anyway. “Jon and Daenerys marched on the capital to overthrow the queen.” A pause. “You weren’t here...for the battle.”

Meera pauses in front of one of the cages, peering inside at the raven. It looks back at her with a tilt of its head. “No. No, I wasn’t. I needed to be with my family when...” She stops, shakes her head. There is a long pause, and Sam almost wonders if she is going to continue or turn on her heel and leave. But then she says, “It makes no matter. I’m here now, with my father. Winterfell is recovering well from the war.”

Again, her voice sounds odd. Sam ponders about it briefly before nodding. “Yes. We lost a lot of soldiers, good men. But it wasn’t nearly as devastating as we thought, after all that. By the morning, Arya—that’s Bran’s...and, um, Jon’s...sister—well, she had killed the Night King and we all lived.” He clears his throat as Meera frowns. “It was all very scary at the time.”

“Some stories have made their way to Greywater Watch,” Meera says with a shrug, rubbing her fingers together in front of the cage. The raven caws quietly, hopping from its perch to nuzzle its beak against her fingers. “How the Starks saved Winterfell from the undead with the help of two dragons. How wolves came from the woods to tear apart the White Walkers. How the Dragon Queen sprouted wings of her own to breathe fire on the attacking hordes.”

Sam stares at her.

“Admittedly, the person who told that story was rather drunk,” she amends with a shrug and a smile. She straightens, rubbing the raven’s head affectionately. “And my father knew the truth anyway. It’s why he—why we—came. I don’t think any of you will like that much.”

“Your visit?” Sam asks. It occurs to him that he still hasn’t sent off the message that Sansa needs him to, and he glances up at the raven still stubbornly sitting on the overhead beam. “I’m sure Bran will be happy to see you.”

She turns away from him but not in enough time for him to see the way her face twists. “Right. Surely.”

Another pause. Sam shifts awkwardly. “Did you need to send a message?”

She blinks at him. “A message?”

“Yes. This is the rookery.”

“No, I…” She moves away from the cage now. “I was looking for Bran. Or the Three-Eyed Raven. Whatever he calls himself now. My father said...” She lets out a long sigh and then glances around the rookery again before turning to leave. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I’ll leave you to send your messages.”

“Wait, no.” Sam remembers their encounter from years ago, remembers Summer and Hodor and Meera’s brother. Everything has been a chaotic mess since those times but Sam knows that he has seen neither Summer nor Hodor since he has returned to Winterfell. And Meera has mentioned her father but not the brother who journeyed north of the Wall with her. He rubs his hands against his tunic and offers a small, apologetic smile. “The Reeds are bannermen to the Starks, have been for a long time. And your father...he was a warrior at one time, wasn’t he?”

He can see the way Meera bristles, her eyes narrowing, knows he has made a mistake. “Are you going to ask why he wasn’t at this battle for the living?”

“N-no!” Sam replies hastily, flushing. “Of course not.” She gives him a look that clearly says she doesn’t believe him and he hurries to explain. “My father was always angry at me for having my nose in a book. Said it wasn’t right for man to always be _reading_. But I liked it. I read a lot of history and about the Great Houses and their bannermen ages ago, even though it turned out not to be that helpful. Not with the wars and everything. I mean, there are cousins and all but you know...family trees look like maps sometimes. Anyway...my father, he said yours was a good friend of Eddard Stark’s, back during Robert’s Rebellion.”

Despite the babbling, even Sam knows not to go into what else about his father said about the Reeds and crannogmen in general. Meera might not have a knife at this throat during this encounter but he suspects his father’s disparaging remarks would quickly put it there.

Instead Meera nods slowly, as if accepting his words (inwardly Sam lets out a sigh of relief, he cannot take any more violent threats to his person this year).

“They were.” She hesitates and then ventures, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“T-thank you.” Despite the months that have passed since his father and Dickon were killed (d _on’t you know...she executed my father and brother. They were her_ prisoners _..._ ), it still takes Sam by surprise, the sharp and painful memory of finding out about their deaths. The shock, the grief (not for his father, of course, but his brother, his good and kind and dutiful little brother, oh Dickon), and then...anger? Frustration?

 _Immediately after, Bran told me to tell Jon about who he was,_ Sam thinks, saddened. _I was so angry. She shouldn’t have done it, not to her prisoners, not to Dickon at least. But then I told Jon and...and…_

_I can see things happening all over the world._

_He needs to know the truth._

He hasn’t thought about it much, not with the preparation for battle against the Night King and then the fight itself and the aftermath and then the march to take the war south. It is hard to think, so interwoven with the news of the deaths of his father and Dickon. But Bran had timed it beautifully, hadn’t he? Telling him exactly in that moment, when Sam was confused and shattered and heartbroken, that Jon needed to know that he was truly a king. The _rightful_ king. And Sam _knows_ Jon, trusts that he was— _is—_ a good and honorable man who always did the right thing.

The Dragon Queen, on the other hand, for all of her proclamations of destiny and rightful rulership, had burned his family alive.

There was clearly a better choice. And Sam had revealed it.

A seed of doubt.

And of course Jon would tell Sansa and Arya. The Stark girls, who already distrusted Daenerys, despite her beauty and her dragons and her willingness to risk all to save the North.

Rumors and secrets and lies, bleeding out on the floor of the past.

Fire and ice.

And they have not heard from anyone in the south.

“Sam? Are you alright?”

He blinks. Meera is staring at him, brow furrowed in faint concern. The parchment in his hand has fallen to the floor, and the raven still sitting on the rafter above his head caws quietly.

“I’m f-fine,” Sam murmurs, bending over to pick up the scroll. _He wouldn’t have planned it, not like that, not with two dragons who could raze Winterfell to the ground..._ “I...must send this message though. We still haven’t heard anything from Jon or the queen in the capital.” _What_ queen is the question. He laughs nervously as he fumbles with the scroll, aware of the panicky itch alighting on the back of his neck. “Some news seems to travel much slower than others. What with your stories and such.”

A strange look passes over Meera’s face.

“We didn’t learn the truth by some drunkard or by raven,” she says quietly.

Now it is Sam’s turn to be confused. Waving at the crow, he says, “Pardon? But you said your father knew what happened.” Meera doesn’t respond right away, and in the pregnant silence that follows, Sam decides that trying to get this one crow down from the rafters is too much work, and he turns to another cage. The bird inside is smaller, with questionable stamina in the wintery weather, but will have to do. He coaxes it out onto his hand and solemnly begins to attach the missive.

“When we met at the Nightfort, you asked my brother how he knew about the Walkers. He never did answer you.”

_There’s nowhere safe any longer. You know that. You saw the White Walkers and the army of the dead._

“Your brother..." Sam shuffles. “Is he...?”

“I slit his throat out of mercy.” If she is at all bothered by Sam’s wince, she doesn’t show it. “He knew before we left Greywater Watch. He knew the entire time he would die north of the Wall, far from home, and he never told me.”

“I don’t understand—”

“He had the sight. The greensight. It was a gift from my mother.” Her eyes narrow. “I need to see him. I need to see Bran or whatever creature he’s become. Before my father talks to him, even though he probably knows already. Tell me where I can find him.”

Sam feels as if he is missing several important connections here and he blinks rapidly at the Reed girl before he walks over to the window. The raven perched on his hand gives him a quizzical look but Sam is too distracted to really take note of it. Again, he notices how silent the other ravens are—staring in the gray shadows, watching and waiting, as if they too are patiently hoping their master will awaken.

A flap of ebony wings, a few stray feathers floating to the ice-sheathed ledge—and then the raven is no more than a speck of black against the overcast sky.

South.

“Bran is unconscious,” Sam finally replies, watching the bird fly away and hoping...hoping... “He saw something, I think. Maybe something that happened in the capital. We don’t know. His sister—Sansa—is at his side now.” He again remembers Sansa’s reaction, the nearly identical spasm of pain across her face at the same time as her brother. It had been eerie, watching them react simultaneously to unseen pain, as if they had shared whatever vision had violently wrenched the Raven into darkness.

“Why did your father come?” Sam suddenly blurts out. “Did your mother see something too? Is that why...?”

Meera’s jaw clenches and Sam finally takes note of the dark circles under her eyes, the wan and pale appearance of her features as if she has not slept since her trek north so many years ago. “Tell me where Bran is.” It is a demand, simple and completely unavoidable, and Sam can’t help but think that if he refuses, he’ll once again find a knife to his throat, his own questions be damned. A tired and irritated Meera Reed is still not someone he’s inclined to push for answers.

So he nods, piling the books into a stack and gathering up his papers to shove into a beaten, dog-eared folio. The ravens continue to stare silently at him as he passes by their cages.

“Right, of course. Follow me.”

The walk through the halls of Winterfell is tense and quiet. While Sam assumes that the castle proper is busier than normal due to the influx of people from all over the North who have yet to return home, he knows that once they depart to their own homesteads, the total weight of the losses suffered through the battle will be felt tenfold. Even though he has only spent a short amount of time here, it _still_ feels much emptier to him now, with the wildlings and the armies gone. Left behind is a skeleton garrison, the women and the children, the old, the weak, and the infirm. And him. 

(Once upon a time he would have said it was because he was a craven, a foolish boy who cried and quivered at the idea of violence. But he knows where his strengths lie now. He will never be a warrior and that is fine by him).

(He still will not try to anger Meera Reed).

(He is sure there is a knife stowed _somewhere_ on her person).

The girl in question is nearly silent as a wraith as she walks next to him. There is an impatience to her steps that makes him think that he is walking too slowly and he bites his lower lip to keep from asking her again what is wrong and what in the world did her father see.

Instead, he ventures for a (hopefully) safer topic.

“Before that time in the Nightfort,” he says as they descend a stairwell towards the Starks' living quarters, “how long...you’ve known the Starks for a long time, then?”

Meera presses her lips together and eventually shakes her head. “Not truly. Jojen and I came after the Greyjoy boy and the Boltons sacked Winterfell. We’ve— _I’ve—_ only ever known Bran and Rickon. And I met Sansa briefly when I returned Bran to Winterfell but I’ve never met the others.” She shakes her head. “My father says their family fared better than most during the war. That most of their bannermen kept faith with them, even when everything was lost. Including us.”

 _They fared better than most, and to have still lost their father, their mother, their oldest brother, and their youngest_ , Sam thinks sadly. Years of war and so many families completely gone, by sword or by the cold.

“But,” Meera continues, her voice taking on a bitter, melancholic tone so sharp that Sam feels as if he waved his hand over her mouth, he’d find himself with stumps for fingers like Ser Davos, “isn’t that we’re all meant to do? To keep to the old saying? ‘ _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.’”

Having grown up in the Reach and only being familiar with House words, this causes Sam to pause. “What?”

Meera shrugs. “It probably hasn’t been heard much in the other kingdoms, at least not a non-bastardized version of it. But Father always told it to me and Jojen growing up. Mother too. We thought it was a jest for a long time—there have always been Starks in Winterfell so why say it? But when you look at all the evil that came upon the North when there wasn’t a Stark there...well, maybe there is some truth to it.”

He thinks about that. Eddard Stark’s actions and subsequent demise is what set off the War of the Five Kings. He knows Robb left for war, as well as the Stark matriarch, and the Red Wedding itself will be spoken up in horror-filled whispers for ages to come. Bran and Rickon obviously ran once Theon and eventually the Boltons took over Winterfell, and when Sansa came back, it was as a Lannister and then as a Bolton herself. Until very recently, Winterfell had been abandoned of Starks for _years_.

And it was a _Stark_ , finally returned to her ancestral home, who brought about the end of the war against winter itself.

He catches Meera giving him a sidelong glance. “You have the same look my mother did when she realized the same.”

“A coincidence,” Sam murmurs. Meera makes a face.

“Is it though?” She runs a hand through her already disheveled curls as they round the corner to Bran's chambers. “I think there is older magic here in Winterfell than anyone would believe. The Starks themselves are descended from the First Men. Legend has it that a Stark himself built the Wall to keep the Walkers to the north. But I guess if there is anything I learned over these years it's that many of the legends were grounded in facts. History becomes stories and stories become myths and myths become legends. And men keep telling them, the old powers and the old gods, and we pretend as if we have any idea what they want."

There is a sinking feeling in Sam’s stomach. He grabs her arm to stop her.

“Bran said the Night King wanted to destroy the living, to destroy _him_.”

“ _Bran_ said that, or did the Three-Eyed Raven say that?” Meera snaps back at him, molten heat—fury? loss?—in her dark eyes. She snatches her arm out of his grip. “And what do any of _us_ know of the Three-Eyed Raven? He was just another tool of the Children of the Forest, just like the Night King.”

This is all new information to Sam who can only gape at her. Meera returns his astounded look with a scowl of her own.

“A Stark killed the Night King because the Three-Eyed Raven said you had to. Because he wore the face of someone you trusted. And you all _listened_ to him.”

Sam shakes his head, mind spinning.

“No. Jon fought him too. In Hardhome. The dead and the Walkers—they would’ve killed us all. _Jon_ is the reason we all fought because he always knew, always believed...he is the one who went to ask Daenerys for help...”

Meera only scoffs.

“None of you are very smart,” she says, though with remarkably less heat than before, turning to stalk down the remainder of the corridor, towards a door where the crimson-gold glow of firelight flickers. Sam has no choice but to hurry after her, juggling his armful of books and papers in surprise. “You should’ve had the Targaryen kill the Night King.”

“Daenerys tried—”

The Reed girl steps past him, peering into the room. “The other one.”

Sam is a little tired of getting shocked by every other sentence coming out of her mouth. It takes him a moment to recover from this one. “D-did your mother see this?”

Meera gives him a flat look. “Jojen had the stronger power. My mother's gift is mild on the best of days.” She shakes her head. “But my _father_ was there with his friend when Lyanna Stark died. When we received a scroll from Lord Varys, it really made no difference to keep it a secret from us any longer. But he is the only person alive who could vouch for Jon’s heritage who _didn’t_ see it in a vision.”

Sam mulls over this for a moment, catching his breath from the abrupt jog down the hall. It seems that everyone except for Daenerys and her army—none native to Westeros—would rather declare for Jon as king. And why not? He is Westerosi in a way the Dragon Queen can never be, the blood of the greatest southern dynasty to have ever lived, a descendant of the famed Kings of Winter, raised by one of the most honorable men many had ever known _and_ the legitimate son of a beloved prince. Daenerys has her name and her dragons and her foreign armies of the east--she would never be the queen Westeros would choose.

So why _not_ Jon?

He looks over Meera’s shoulder into the room. Bran is still lying on the bed, his brow furrowed even in the depths of whatever darkness he has fallen into. His sister is nowhere to be seen but the lady knight stands near the door, fixing a glower at both of them that makes Sam only a tiny bit nervous.

“Lady Sansa has gone to meet with her guest,” Brienne says shortly. “If you are looking for her, you will find her in the Great Hall.”

Meera barely seems to register her words. “I’ve come to see Bran.”

Sam sees the moment recognition seems to light up Brienne’s eyes. “Lady Meera—my apologies. I...did not recognize you.”

“The Raven sent me away like a badly-behaved dog soon after I brought him home,” comes the reply. “I wasn’t here long enough to make an impression.” She walks over to the edge of the bed, standing there quietly for a few moments. Finally, she sits, glaring down at the face of the boy she had traveled so far for. “And you need to wake up. We need to talk.”

Brienne meets Sam’s gaze in confusion but he must look as if he has been on the receiving end of several blows to the head because her eyes narrow in suspicion. He shakes his head—a clear sign of _not now_ or maybe _I need a moment or fifty—_ and backs out of the room, still clutching the books and papers in his arms. His arms are beginning to cramp from how tightly he is holding them, as if the mere thought of the history he has already written down is in danger of unraveling if he holds it any looser.

_Jon...I need to speak with Jon...  
_

No. No, not Jon.

_History becomes stories and stories become myths and myths become legends..._

He looks down at the books in his arms.

He remembers when he was little—oh gods it feels like a lifetime ago, a time before the Citadel and before Gilly and before the Night’s Watch, he can’t even remember—and the comments his father made. How no son of his would whimper and cower in the golden recesses of Horn Hill’s library. How Sam had taken comfort in the folktales and the lore, would rather pretend to be a knight in his imagination than one in truth, how he would cry at the mere thought of pain, days and days and days of turning into a scholar beneath his father’s harsh glower and his mother’s quiet sweetness and Dickon’s bemused tolerance, his confusion melting away to wide-eyed wonder when Sam read him the books when they were both so young (“you’ll like this one, Dickon! I promise!”) and Dickon would cheer for the knights just as Sam would but only in secret nights, under the haze of darkness, always the golden son in his father’s presence and gone now, burned to ashes on a battlefield far from home and away from the older brother who told him those tales and showered him in fanciful stories of splendors (knights and good men never died in those stories, unlike the sandy-haired boy who stood with his father), but the books, the stories still remained and no one would ever know them better than Sam himself.

He swallows against the sudden overwhelming feeling of loss and dread that has settled in the pit of his stomach, making the books and papers and all of the words within feel as if they weigh as much as the giants that tore Winterfell asunder. Here is the history and within the sprawling of the ages are the stories and the myths and the legends and nestled somewhere in between...

...the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal was to update this fic with a chapter a week. However, I made this resolution whilst in the middle of moving houses - an annoying feat when you’re packing one human, a goddamned nightmare when you’re packing up five humans (two of them weans), three dogs, and two cats, even if the new place is only 20 minutes away. Alas.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your kudos and comments, especially the latter - they are my bread and butter and the kick in the ass I need when I’ve been distracted by binge-watching the Captain America trilogy for the umpteenth time in one week (I have a weakness for Good Men Trying To Do The Right Thing). This story is mapped out to the bittersweet end, and I’m alarmed to admit that these first few chapters are really just that - the first few.
> 
> See you in the next two chapters, where we’re dropping in on Gendry, a familiar face from Essos...and what is this, BRAN? (And then I swear, we’re headed back to the capital and the fustercluck going on there because we haven’t heard from Jon in like, a thousand chapters).


	8. The Stag Lord

The salty gales that blow in from the rugged shoreline of Shipbreaker Bay are fearsome and icy enough to send any resident on Durran’s Point deep within the confines of the impenetrable walls...but Gendry is no Stormlander.

He sits at the apex of the massive drum tower, barely shielded from the mighty winds blowing in from the east by the battlements. Hundreds of feet below where he sits, he can hear the roar and the crash of waves against the jagged rocks where no ship has dared anchor. He has heard the stories, of how the patriarch of House Baratheon along with his wife had met their watery demise in this very bay, against the rocks that both protect and destroy so far below. He tastes the salt and the sea on his tongue, watches churning white-crested waves angrily break against the shore, hears the lone cry of a seagull pierce through the thunder of the breaking currents.

And still he does not feel as if he has come home.

Gendry sighs, sitting hunched in one of the crenels, one leg bent and pulled to his chest, unbothered by the sheer dizzying drop barely an arm’s length away. He and a small garrison of Northern soldiers had arrived barely three days ago, the hard ride from Winterfell to White Harbor nearly killing several mounts on the way, followed by a suspiciously uneventful sea voyage to Griffin’s Roost. The gray castle sitting under an even grayer sky had been held by a skeleton garrison, kingsmen and queensmen who could not, would not, make the long march to Winterfell to battle an army of corpses and blue-eyed demons (Gendry is still not sure if he could blame them—had they all not followed Stannis Baratheon on his misguided hero’s quest for years and years already?). 

The maester of the castle, a young man barely older than Gendry, had more sense than many his age and had listened to their tale—and of Gendry’s newly appointed lordship by the Dragon Queen—with a sort of resigned but amused weariness. Gendry was not sure an entire army of ravens could help convince the rest of Westeros of the battles that had taken place in the north but clearly the Targaryens still seemingly held a mythical reverence in the eyes of many. The maester had nodded, assured Gendry and his men would find no resistance to his claim, and had led them to their chambers to rest.

Gendry had been silent throughout most of the explanations, with only a nod of agreement or a tired shrug when questions had been sent his way. The maester hadn’t seem eager to argue about holding the seat of the Baratheons longer than he already had, even less eager to deny a legitimacy granted by the Dragon Queen. And in the space of one afternoon, the boy from the slums of King’s Landing became Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.

It is still overwhelming.

This isn’t the life he was supposed to have, running amok through adventures straight out of a child’s book. For years and years now—save for that long and dismal hiatus where it felt as if his entire world had come nothing but his rowboat and the blisters on his hand and the burning salt of the sea and a never-ending exhaustion—he has been running. Always running: from other hungry mouths in the slums who would quick as cut your throat if it gained them food or coin, from an assassin’s knife when he still believed himself nothing more than a wench’s son, from the Red Priestess’s spells when his blood was more important than his life, from the cold, from death. 

And now here he sits, as if at the end of the world. Had the world ended? Did everything really come to an end there in Winterfell? He is not sure he cares to think about any of it, especially not of Winterfell. Of grasping cold hands and eyes bluer than night and the smell of piss and death and the screams, of course. He is no stranger to death but on that scale…

There is also that kiss and the warmth of a young woman’s body, flush with pleasure above him, lips against his neck, calluses on her fingertips from a thousand unknown deaths, touching him, bruising him...

Gendry closes his eyes against the sight in front of him, his hand curling into a fist as he throws his head back against the stone battlement with a soft thunk. The sea roaring below is nowhere near as wild as the girl, nowhere near as awe-inspiring, as lovely, as fierce, and he wants...he _wants_...but gods how could he ever hope, how could he even have thought...?

_I’m not a lady. I never have been. That’s not me._

_And I’m no lord,_ Gendry wanted to say, to grab her, to plead, in case she disappeared into the salt and the sea and the snow like she had all those years ago, like a wraith--anything to make her stay, to make her understand. _Titles don’t mean piss. I wanted_ you _._

“My lord?”

Gendry’s eyes fly open and he whips his head to the side, only to see the young maester from yesterday standing a handful of yards away from him, a wary expression on his face. Gendry wonders how many lords have sat perched on the dangerous gaps of the battlements, how many forlorn, heartbroken, and mad knights had leapt to their death, brains and blood dashed against the rocks far below. He wonders if that’s the picture he presents.

 _Moping like some great fool_ , he thinks, swinging his legs around and resting his elbows on his knees, giving the maester a defiant look. How long has he been standing there? “You can call me Gendry. I’m not much of a lord.” 

The title still itches, a cloak that is too big, made for a man much different than Gendry himself, swamping him. He watches as the maester’s eyes crinkle up at the edges, the crow’s feet the only sign that the other man is either much older than he appears or that he has led some remarkably hard life behind the austere walls of Storm’s End.

“It wouldn’t be proper, my lord,” he says. He seems to mull his words for a moment before adding, with a bit of dry self-deprecation, “And I wouldn’t want to anger the Dragon Queen.”

 _No one wants to be roasted by a dragon._ Gendry sighs, running a hand over his neatly-shorn hair. He wants to say that she is not that terrible—Jon seems to be a remarkable judge of character, all things considering, and he seems to trust her just fine. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she is also strikingly beautiful and the two of them have fallen madly in love over the course of several months. A part of him resents it. Another part of him is resigned to it. Either way, it is Daenerys who has given him the title and it is she who will expect him to be faithful in return.

“She’s not mad,” Gendry ventures, rocking to his feet. Is it proper protocol to be discussing the queen’s mental stability with the castle’s—his—maester? Are there _rules_ for this sort of thing? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “And besides, if I muck all of this up, she’s more liable to feed me to her dragon than you so don’t worry about that.”

“I’d imagine she wouldn’t have gifted you the title and legitimacy if she thought you would, ah, _muck_ it up.” There is amusement in the maester’s voice. Gendry isn’t sure if it was from relief that he (probably) will not face a fiery end or of Gendry’s clear bluntness—gods, he can’t even speak like a lord. He had heard of King Robert’s candor and friendliness, the boisterous rowdiness that had endeared him to the people—but Robert Baratheon had been born a lord. There had never been a moment in his life when he had been anything less. And a lord can wear the crown of a king more easily than a bastard boy can wear the title of a lord.

He wishes that their journey to Storm’s End had not been so abrupt. He would have gladly sought out Jon Snow to commiserate—over several mugs of ale, preferably—about rising from their lowly status as bastards to honor beyond comprehension, he the lord of Storm’s End and Jon Snow the proclaimed King in the North. But instead, he is here, with northmen he fought beside but whose names swirl and muddle in his head, far away from Winterfell and King’s Landing and everything else he had ever known.

The maester must catch the myriad of emotions that pass over Gendry’s past because the polite amusement vanishes into something a little warmer. “Not to fret, my lord. It will get easier, as time passes. If you are anything like your father or your uncles, the people will forgive you of most anything.”

Gendry briefly recalls his encounters with Stannis Baratheon and wonders if the maester had actually ever _met_ the man.

He says nothing though, only offers a half-hearted shrug of one shoulder. The maester gives him an appraising look that Gendry struggles not to scowl at but the other young man must decide it is not worth the argument for instead he gestures for Gendry to follow him to the entrance of the stairwell. Reluctantly, Gendry does so.

They descend the winding torch-lit stone staircase in relative silence with the maester only briefly interrupting to ask if Gendry would like a meal brought to his solar (Gendry was not even aware he _had_ a solar). After sorting out that confusion, silence falls upon them again, a silence that settles between Gendry’s shoulder blades so incessantly that by the time they reach Gendry’s chambers, he almost wishes that the Night King was still around just so that he could be anywhere else except _there_.

“I will send a servant with a meal shortly,” the maester says, after depositing Gendry in his chamber. “And Ser Gilbert has been inquiring about a meeting with you. Shall I inform him that he is at your disposal?”

Gendry gives him a baffled look. “Ser Gilbert?”

“The castellan.” A pause. “He was a kingsman, so he should like you well enough.”

“Right…”

“And my name is Jurne, if you were at all curious.”

The look that Gendry gives him this time only makes him laugh.

As it turns out, Ser Gilbert Farring (“you call me Bertie and I don’t care what queen made you lord, I’ll break your nose”) is yet another member of the castle who looks barely half a dozen namedays older than Gendry himself, a phenomenon apparently caused by the castle’s older predecessors having an uncanny ability of getting themselves killed. Unlike the slim, short maester, Farring, with his bushy brown beard and arms the size of a small village, is a giant of a man who looks as if he tears weirwoods up from their roots for fun. He bustles into Gendry’s chambers after giving him that brief introduction and a quick assessing look and then heads straight towards the platter of fried bread, garlic sausage, ripe blue cheese, and a flagon of a golden ale too cloyingly sweet for Gendry’s tastes. 

“You been avoiding me, eh?” Farring asks, pouring himself a cup of ale. Before Gendry can respond, the castellan barges on, “I wouldn’t blame you for it. You all have had a bloody time of it, from what Jurne tells me. Dragons! The undead! If the north weren’t so fucking cold, I would’ve liked to see it myself. But we haven’t had much direction here since old Stannis died. We were for Renly, you see, but the gods know _that_ went spectacularly sideways. And then Stannis was too busy in the North with you lot and the Lannisters and Tyrells were fucking around in King’s Landing and everyone just forgot about us. I mean, I suppose we could have listened to Queen Cersei but listening to her has never done anyone here much good. And the smallfolk, well you know they are quite tired of all the fighting and Jurne said it would probably just be best that we wait until someone finally figures out who was in charge since it would’ve been pointless running off behind someone else who found themselves on the receiving end of a nice piece of steel. Jurne says you were a blacksmith, eh?” 

It takes a moment for Gendry to realize that this is actually a question addressed to him. “Apprenticed in King’s Landing, aye.” He watches in no little bemusement as the big man finally downs the cup of ale, makes a face of disgust, and reaches for a slice of the fried bread. 

“You drink this swill?”

“Too sweet. Or maybe I just don’t have a lord’s refined tastes.”

Farring grunts in approval, taking a massive bite of the bread. “To hell with a lord’s tastes. I’d rather have a lord who can stomach an ale thick enough to chew on.” He narrows his eyes as the flagon. “Besides, the old folk around here say you’re the spitting image of King Robert when he was a lad. All of Westeros knew he enjoyed a good strong cup of wine or beer or ale or whatever he could get his hands on. May have been his undoing but…”

Gendry sits at the small table with the platter of food, not hungry enough to even pretend to have an interest in it. “Is that why you wanted to see me? To see if what the old folks saying was true?” Farring shrugs, collapsing his bulk into the other chair and reaching for another slice of bread, along with a piece of cheese. 

“I was three-and-twenty and newly wed when King Robert died and never ventured much farther west than Griffin’s Roost. When the king did venture out this way to see his brother, I only saw him from afar.” The older man purses his lips. “All I can say for certain is that you’re smaller than he was."

Gendry can’t help it—he laughs. “Many men can say that.”

“Not many can say they’ve fought the undead or ridden a dragon though,” Farring reminds him. “Now listen—I’m young for a castellan and I will probably be accused of cowardice for not assisting in any of the wars that have been fought across Westeros since they took off Ned Stark’s head. But after the lords and ladies all but forgot about us here in the east, I’ve the good sense to keep my mouth shut and to know when and where fighting needs to be done. Dragons and ice monsters are all well and good and I’ll be damned if I said I wouldn’t have liked to see that battle, but Jurne and I have kept the people here in decent shape since the battles have broken out and the men who came before us tried to be heroes in the name of their kings and queens. That should count for something, even if don’t mean piss to you.”

Gendry stares at him, as the man’s words and meaning sinks in. “Wait. You think I’m going to _replace_ you?”

“The Targaryen queen and the northerners may have some feeling about men who did not come to their aid when fighting an undead horde.” 

“I doubt that they will.”

Farring raises an eyebrow. “Once the fighting is done? If the Targaryen queen wins the throne, do you think she’s going to graciously forgive those who didn’t run to fight with her or to help her claim her throne? If Queen Cersei defeats her, then we’re harboring the only remaining threat to her power, a much-loved king’s only living trueborn son.” He takes a slow thoughtful bite of the bread. “No, your queen has put us in a bit of a situation, you see. I have to admit that I’m too proud of my position to go down without a fight, even if the path that led me here is strewn with the bodies of the men who came before me. I’ve done my duty as much as any man can.”

Gendry is silent for a long moment, mulling over the castellan’s words. This man had barged into his chambers, threatened to punch him in the face, ate his food and drank his ale without asking for permission, and now was, in a roundabout way, asking to remain castellan of Storm’s End, all within ten minutes. If it had been any other person, any other lordling who had never been spoken to in such a defiant way, the man most likely would have been escorted out of the room with much prejudice.

Instead, he continues to sit across from Gendry, his jaw jutted out at a stubborn angle, watching him, judging him...to make a mistake? To lose his temper? Maester Jurne had treated him with amused benevolence, as if this was some grand sort of prank that the Dragon Queen had bestowed upon them. Ser Gilbert Farring was taking it as the threat that Daenerys no doubt intended for it to be: _follow me and my decisions, or suffer the consequences_ . It was a strong-armed move, certainly, but necessary—he _is_ the son of Robert Baratheon and the stormlands _are_ one of the Seven Kingdoms, currently one of many without anyone to lead it. He assumes that she will do the same with the Reach and the Westerlands. It only makes sense.

But this is politics and diplomacy and lordships and a world Gendry has only observed from the outside. When you are fighting the end of the world, who cares what titles you have and whose blood runs through your veins? A few weeks ago, none of this had even mattered—Gendry was the bastard son of a king, an orphan, a blacksmith, a fighter...and now because of a few simple words, he is something more. Does that give him the right to tell this man that in order to appease Daenerys, a new castellan and a new maester of Storm’s End must be chosen? Or does it give him a duty to stand for the people whose castle he has inherited as lord? Would that make him an enemy to the queen, whichever one emerged victorious from the war in King’s Landing? 

_You stupid stubborn bull_ , a teasing voice in his head chides him, a voice that that sounds so remarkably like Arya’s, it almost makes him physically ill. _You protect people who need protecting and to hell with the rest of them_.

Yet Arya says she is no lady. And Gendry...what is Gendry anymore?

He suddenly feels very tired.

Closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face, he lets out a long, slow breath. Then, after a moment, he meets Farring’s cool, inquisitive gaze with a grim expression. “Listen. I’ve been fighting enemies stronger than me for months now. I’ve done it to protect people because that’s what I do. That’s what’s right. And I can’t say I’m going to come here and be the right kind of lord, who talks pretty and knows how to do the things lords do. But I can try to do right by you all. It may not be proper but I can at least do that.”

Farring is quiet for a moment. And then he too lets out a sigh, scooping up one more piece of sausage. Then he rises to his feet, looking thoughtful as he takes a bite of the sausage.

“Aye, I suppose that’s all I can ask of you,” he says slowly. “Tell your friend the Dragon Queen to have mercy on us poor smallfolk when she gets her throne, eh? We can’t all make decisions as if we’ve got a dragon at our back.” His smile seems more of a grimace. “And neither can you. Jurne and I will help you out, Gendry Baratheon, but you need to learn how to be a true lord and quick. Next time, don’t let me go ahead and eat all of your food.”

Gendry shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry. It would’ve gone to waste otherwise.”

Farring gives him a long, long look and then barks out a guffaw. “Oh yes—you have a long way to go.” And then he scoops up the flagon of ale (“I’m going to pour it out a window because this is a disgrace”) and is gone.

That night, Gendry’s dreams are shifting and shapeless shadows that seem to chase him through the deserted slum labyrinth of King’s Landing. A piercing coldness precedes the shadows and in their dark depths he can see the flicker of blue eyes, hear the unnatural guttural noises of animated corpses. He moves faster, looking for something important, something that is lost and forgotten, as cold tendrils touch the back of his neck and the undead scurry in the darkness, the looming and overpowering darkness, that fills every corner, every doorway, every window, as if the night truly had never ended. 

And somewhere overhead, the screaming of three dragons, one a decrepit corpse, its brothers fire made flesh, and the world is suddenly alight in flame and heat and screams, human and inhuman, and he is running through the streets as fire and smoke chase him with the same promise of death as the ice and the darkness. And still he cannot find that important _something,_ that thing lost in the darkness of alleys and doorways, around twists and turns and dead-ends. He can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, can feel a cold, desperate sweat dripping down his brow, his throat parched from exertion and from the smoke.

In his dream, he stumbles—over a corpse, over bricks, over nothing, he can’t tell—and collapses to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. Above him, fire. Around him, snow and cold and terrible blue eyes and the smell of decay and death, skeletal hands, reaching, reaching, reaching…

And then...warmth.

Blessed silence.

He looks up and around as the dreamscape around him shifts like sand, slipping away into gray mists and moonlight and warmly glowing fires, scattered like stars across a welcoming dark expanses. He turns again, trying to lift himself up from the exhausted stumble he fell into, and sees a pair of hazel eyes, serious and faintly amused and too old for such a young face, fierceness that he loves, strength that he is enraptured with.

It’s _her_.

“Arry. _Arya_.”

Her hand is on his shoulder suddenly and she smiles. It does not reach her eyes.

“I’m not her.” She brushes a hand through his hair. “I’m no lady.”

“Arya, wait..." 

“In the darkness, it doesn’t matter,” she says quietly, brushing her lips against his and it is the sweetest most perfect darkness he can imagine. 

“We survived in the darkness. We—”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Her touch is warm but her words are cold, colder than the death and decay brought by winter winds. “Because ice cannot kill a dragon.”

 _No, no,_ fire _cannot kill a dragon_ , Gendry thinks, confusion seeping like poison in the kiss but he cannot pull away. His body feels as if it is being pulled apart by this kiss, by passion, and even though a small corner of his mind knows that this is a dream, knows that none of this is real, he reaches for her in desperation, feels her body relent and sway to his touch, leather and wool disappearing beneath his wandering graze, his tongue dancing across hers, and then her face buried against his neck as she rocks against him, and he can feel her wetness and heat around his cock and _Arry Arry Arry yes yes please please stay please I’m no lord either I’ve looked for you I’ve looked so long please don’t go please stay please…_

And then she pulls away and the face he is looking at isn’t Arya’s at all. Her eyes are the same brilliant hazel, dancing with flame and darkness, and he can feel her slick heat around him, and her body is like a literal flame, burning, burning, burning, and Gendry cannot scream...

“Children of fire and children of ice,” the strange woman whispers as he tries to recoil from her touch—gods, he is _burning—_ and leans forward to take his hand, placing it over her breast. “And one who is both, for even princes can be crowned kings. And the night continues.”

“Stop... _stop_ ,” Gendry chokes out, even as his skin cracks and peels from the heat of the stranger’s body, even as the dream threatens to unravel. “What princes? What night? We won. We _won_.”

The woman, beautiful and terrible and the very essence of flame and power and darkness, smiles.

“Did you?”

And there is a knife in her hand—the knife he had seen Arya grasping in the aftermath of the battle, the knife that had ended the night—and it is flashing, mercurial, and there is a sting at his throat and darkness, red darkness, blazing blue eyes, and grasping hands and the dead...the _dead_...

Gendry jolts awake with a strangled gasp, finding himself nearly buried in tangled sheets in a room cold despite the warmth from the crackling fireplace. Just beyond the windows he can hear the crashing roar of Shipbreaker’s Bay, see the silvery light thrown by the moon as it peers behind thick, heavy clouds. He lets out a frustrated groan and leans forward to run both hands pver his hair—already the details of the dream are vanishing into the recesses of his mind...except for the woman’s face at the end and the sweat-slicked heat of her body against his. 

He is not surprised by the existence of the nightmare itself. In fact, he is more surprised that it has taken just shy of a fortnight for him to relive it in his dreams. Before, he guesses that mere exhaustion prevented the nightmares from surfacing but now, here in a bed uncomfortably soft, behind the great bulwark of a famously unconquerable castle, the dark night seems to feel free to make itself known.

And Arya...Arya is a ghost to him again, he knows. With a few simple words— _that’s not me--_ he knows that she will haunt him for as long as he lives. 

It seems as though he will never outrun Winterfell.

Then there is a knock on his door, and Gendry wonders if the whole premise of being a lord and a warrior means never getting to sleep again.

“I am sorry if I woke you, my lord,” Maester Jurne says a few moments later as he enters into the bedchambers, as Gendry debates throwing on an absolutely ridiculous robe over his relative state of undress. “But a few...curious visitors have just arrived, wishing to speak to the lord of the castle.”

Deciding that he has not thrown away all of his dignity over the past couple of days, Gendry reaches for a plain tunic that is thrown on the edge of his bed. Slipping it over his head, he asks, “Stormlanders?”

Maester Jurne shakes his head. “Ah. Not quite.” At Gendry’s pointed look, the maester gives him a shrug. “Easterners, my lord. I believe their destination is King’s Landing. The woman has said that they are...familiar with Queen Daenerys.”

This gives Gendry pause. Easterners familiar with Daenerys...he knows that prior to her arrival at Dragonstone, she had ruled Meereen and had conquered several cities in Essos. “Familiar” can mean anything from old allies to displaced rulers with a grudge, meaning that at this godsawful hour of the night, with only a few days of practice being a lord under his belt, Gendry must invoke diplomatic relations with people whose culture is as foreign to him as his title as Lord of Storm’s End.

“Where’d they come from?” he asks, as his mind races. Daenerys would have made it to King’s Landing by now, certainly, if she had marched nonstop with her small garrison of Unsullied and Dothraki warriors. It would take longer for Jon to rally the battered forces for the North but surely he cannot send a raven to King’s Landing with the hopes that Daenerys would have overthrown Cersei by now. Winterfell seems a safer bet, since Bran is there, but even then, it may take days and days and days before he hears anything.

“They sailed from Myr, though judging from their accents, neither of them is originally from the city.” The maester pauses, looking thoughtful. “If these are allies of the Dragon Queen, then perhaps there is no need for concern. If not, it is an inauspicious time for them to be here of all places.”

 _It would be a bad time no matter when they decided to come_. “I didn’t know what was happening over here traveled that far and that quickly. The only people over there who care about what happens here are the bankers. I really hope anyone who gets on a boat just to pay a visit is a friend.”

Maester Jurne smiles. “Or a very determined enemy.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m only here to point out the gaps in your thinking, my lord.”

“You’re a little too eager about it,” Gendry mutters, grabbing his riding coat from a chair and heading out the door, to the sound of the maester’s chuckles behind him.

Even though the size of Storm’s End is imposing, it is not terribly difficult to get lost in. Its structure is basically a giant impenetrable barrel atop an even more impenetrable box. It is nothing compared to the winding maze of streets below the Red Keep in King’s Landing, and Gendry was able to make sense of its layout—at least to the more important rooms—within a few hours after he and the northern garrison arrived. It takes only a few minutes of long angry striding through the empty torch-lit corridors to make his way to the reception hall.

Just inside of the hall, Farring is speaking with a couple of wary looking guards who look as though they’d rather be anywhere else except in that room. Gendry cannot blame them, not at this hour, and certainly not with foreign visitors standing just a few yards away. There are only two of them—Gendry makes a note to ask either them or Maester Jurne where the rest of their party is—and he cannot entirely squash the feeling, even with their backs turned away from him, that they are probably more amused by this situation than inconvenienced.

Maester Jurne clears his throat. “The Lord of Storm’s End, Gendry Baratheon.” Farring gives Gendry a nod. But then the pair of Easterners turn, and Gendry immediately goes from being mildly curious to reeling in alarm. 

The man, with a smirk dancing on his lips and the easy stance of a sellsword, is a stranger to him but the woman...the woman he has seen, mere minutes ago, her lips on his and a knife in her hand and flames in her eyes.

Red darkness.

Children of fire and children of ice.

“ _You_ ,” he blurts out as his mouth runs ahead of the shock in his mind.

Maester Jurne blinks. Farring frowns. And the woman smiles into the silence.

“Oh,” her companion drawls with a raised eyebrow, glancing at the woman. “You’ve met. Well, that makes our job much easier. Here I was thinking that we would have to convince you of our good intentions.”

“We...haven’t met.” Gendry can feel Maester Jurne’s disapproving stare and Farring’s quizzical one on him but he squashes the urge to run out of the room. Even as every alarm in his mind is telling him to run, he knows he can’t start talking about dreams and visions in front of these people. Especially not her, especially when that smile says that she clearly knows what is going through his mind. Instead he grits out, “You’re a Red Priestess. I’ve dealt with your people before.”

Her laugh is low but girlish, her eyes dancing with faint mirth. Gendry somehow manages not to take a step—or several—away from her. “It seems many of you Westerosi have had dealings with my sister. Perhaps I should apologize for any...actions she may have taken in the name of our Lord.”

At this, Gendry hesitates. In the chaos of the battle and the disintegration of the hastily-assembled battle plans (Tywin Lannister and Robb Stark, he thinks, are still rolling their graves about _that_ one), Lady Melisandre had provided fire when the ice and snow came raining down. Did it matter that the swords were quenched moments after the Dothraki charged into the darkness? Did it matter that the undead eventually breached the pit of fire? Would they have even had a chance, a moment to breathe, if it had not been for her Lord of Light?

But then Gendry remembers the leeches.

“Your sister tried to have me killed. Wanted to sacrifice me to help Lord Stannis become king,” he says darkly. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Maester Jurne and Farring exchange glances, and the strange man lets out a low whistle beneath his breath. The woman’s smile slips slightly, and she shakes her head.

“Melony was many things. A believer, yes. A devoted servant of our Lord, certainly. And a woman of many great convictions, some of them quite wrong.” She holds out her hands, palms up. She looks young, plaintive. “Do not let her wrongs cause you to doubt our faith. I see through the flames to the truth, to the fire that burns as bright as the sun. It cleanses the shadows of lies and doubts, and now it has led me here, in accordance with the vows I made in the name of Daenerys Stormborn, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons. I am but a humble servant of the Lord, seeking to right the wrongs that my sister, in her blinded faith, committed.”

Farring grunts and turns to give the strange man a look. “What about you? You come here to right some wrongs too, eh?” The stranger grins and offers a slight mocking bow of his head.

“Nothing so grandiose, I’m afraid. I’m a mere sellsword, bearing tidings for the illustrious Dragon Queen...and quite hoping that she will relieve me of the duties she left for me and mine.”

Maester Jurne says, “Lord Gendry has informed us that Queen Daenerys is rallying her forces to strike the capital. I doubt she currently has the time to attend to matters in Essos. Or,” he nods at the woman, “see that matters are set right between the followers of the Red God and herself.”

The woman purses her lips. “I am aware of the Queen’s battle. And I respect that your throne of iron swords holds great importance to her. But the flames have shown me the truth of it. The fires momentarily grew stronger than the shadows of the Great Other and the ice he brings but it did not last.” She gestures towards Gendry. “You have seen the battle with your own eyes. Tell me—has the Great Other truly been defeated?”

“I don’t know a Great Other,” Gendry says with a frown, “but Arya Stark defeated the Night King. We won that war.”

The strange man snorts. “Perfect.”

Maester Jurne holds up his hand, seemingly to silence Farring who has clearly just opened his mouth to demand what in the world the woman was blathering on about. “It is quite late. And I am sure your journey has been a tiring one. Let us reconvene in the morning to discuss your affairs with the queen, and we shall see how we can help you.”

Gendry watches the woman carefully, her face suddenly very cool and stoic and he imagines that she is about to protest. But then, she relents, bowing her head gracefully. Maester Jurne calls for a servant—who materializes seemingly out of thin air—to lead the two to the guest chambers of the castle. The strange man gives the three remaining men an amused look as he is led away, as if this entire meeting has been nothing except a source for future stories to tell at tavern. The woman’s back is gracefully rigid as she departs.

Farring watches them go, his brows knit together in thought. “A sellsword and a Red Priestess. Can’t say I’ve seen much stranger bedfellows.” Maester Jurne sighs, rubbing at his face.

“The Targaryen queen has two dragons and counts among her war counsel a dwarf, eunuchs, former slaves, bastards, and a seer. Strange bedfellows do exist,” he murmurs distractedly. To Gendry he says, “But I can’t say that I like their sudden appearance here too well either. Or this talk about a Great Other. We will need to find out if Daenerys Targaryen succeeded in taking the capital. If not, then Westeros is no place for these foreigners to be, if they are true allies of the queen. If she has taken the capital, we will need instruction on what to do with them.”

Gendry thinks about that for a moment. “Winterfell will be our best bet, I think. Bran will know what’s going on. Can we send a raven?” Maester Jurne nods shortly, and then he too is gone, leaving only Gendry and Farring standing in the massive empty reception hall. Gendry crosses his arms, glaring at the floor, as the woman’s words come back to him. He doesn’t like the uncertainty that her presence has inspired, doesn’t trust her too-well-timed appearance mere days after he arrived with the northern men. Whether or not the Red God is still watching over them doesn’t concern him as much as the fact that their steps are still dogged by his followers.

“Well, that was exciting.” Farring breaks the silence with an annoyed huff. “Red gods to the east, dragons in the north, and a capital about to be besieged in the Crownlands.”

Gendry grimaces and thinks back on his dream. "Four days in and I already want to go back to Flea Bottom."

Farring snorts, planting fists on his hips.

“And you wondered why we stayed here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Moving into a new house is bonkers but somehow my entire clan and the menagerie survived. Now if only we could find anything in all the boxes that have been packed up.
> 
> The state of Storm’s End is a bit of a nebulous affair in the show, post Renly’s death, so I’ve taken some liberties with what has been going on there and who has been in charge. Canonically in the books, Maester Jurne is the maester of Storm’s End and Ser Gilbert Farring the castellan but neither was, as far as I can find, ever introduced in the show. I’m borrowing their names only, with much apologies to whatever fate befalls them in TWOW and ADOS.
> 
> A brief word about distance and travel time - we are now into the part of the story where the timeline is no longer linear, this chapter obviously taking place long before Jon brings the bulk of Dany’s forces to King’s Landing (so apologies to Gendry for technically being the first one to get a head’s up that things are about to go to shit). I’ll try to make some logical sense of travel time that doesn’t rely on magical teleportation systems (not everyone has a dragon or a ship at their disposal) but with Medieval Boy Siri down for the count, folks are going to have to travel and get their information the old-fashioned way. 
> 
> Storm’s End is even farther south than King’s Landing. Even with Gendry leaving Winterfell before Jon and Dany, getting a ship from White Harbor, and making a hard ride for it from Griffin’s Roost, he still arrives at Storm’s End only a few days of Dany arriving at King’s Landing. And I would like to think that Dany didn’t travel to and then conquer King’s Landing within a fortnight of the battle of Winterfell. 
> 
> Further apologies to poor Gendry in this chapter - being made president of a company after only being a cashier for five months sucks. We’re now onto Bran for some much needed exposition, the return of yet another old familiar face (sort of) - and then yes finally we’ll be swinging south to King’s Landing for a Jon chapter.


	9. The Broken Boy

Once again, he is falling.

He falls and floats aimlessly in a chilled green mist, his mind unraveling into directionless thoughts and aimless images. Sometimes he reaches out to touch a person, a wall, something solid in his mind’s eye on his way down down down but the images dance away the moment his fingers brush them, curling into wisps of smoke and fading into the cold green air that surrounds him. He wonders at that, frowning at the niggling sense that he should be remembering something in those images. But it comes and it goes and he continues to fall.

 _I’m not cold_ , he realizes belatedly as he drifts, but the iciness that coats him doesn’t bother him as much as it is a _part_ of him, weaving through bone and muscle and sinew, sinking into the very core of him. He knows this, he thinks. It is an old magic. Very old magic. He lifts his hands in front of his face, watches dispassionately as green ice sluices down his fingers like pale liquid emeralds. It doesn’t hurt but he’s disturbed by it. Just like he’s disturbed by the falling.

A boy’s voice in his head. _His_ voice.

_I never fall._

_But you must fall_ , another voice murmurs in the mists. It is familiar in a way that makes his heart ache from memory and he turns his head to the side looking for the source. There is no one and nothing there. _You cannot fly. Not like this. You must fall, Bran._

 _Bran_. He knows that name. The boy who fell. The boy who…

_...a memory now, of sitting at the feet of an old woman. A girl is sitting next to him, shifting uncomfortably in a gray dress. A little boy sprawls out across both of their laps, eyes wide with wonder. Just beyond, he sees an older girl and a still older boy, auburn curls and blue eyes, both pretending not to be enraptured by the stories softly flowing from the old woman’s fragile body. And one more, pale and dark and solemn-eyed, watching and listening attentively, and the stories shift and warp and change as the crackling of fire in the hearth, and this is his pack, his brothers and sisters, days ancient and innocent and gone..._

_“Men have never seen a summer more glorious than the one that reigned during the days before the winter night finally fell. You see, in those days, there was peace between the Children of the Forest and the First Men, for they had come to realize that their fights would mean the destruction of them both. So they chose the way of harmony and helped one another thrive in the lands from Dorne all the way to the cold regions of the North, where a man’s blood must be thicker to adapt to the colder summer nights._

_“But then, of course, the winter came. And with it came walking death and creatures of ice—giants and spiders and spectres of all sizes and the One Who Brings the Storm, thundering down from the Lands of Always Winter. And you have never seen a darkness so great fall across the land, of unspeakable powers wielded by the creatures of the night. These wars lasted a generation—children were born and grew and wedded and sired children of their own without ever seeing the light of summer. And there are some who say, because everything is a spinning circle that never ends, that history must repeat itself. The Long Night must come again. And you children have the warning burned into your blood, in the words of this great House._

_“Winter is coming.”_

Through the haze, he thinks he sees Winterfell—but not the Winterfell of recent memory. No, he remembers. This is the Winterfell of his childhood. Of warmth and noise and laughter, of wooden swords and booming voices and the steady silence of the godswood and the watchful eye of his lord father and lady mother. It is the Winterfell of ghostly memory now, a Winterfell before the stag killed the direwolf, leaving six pups to fend for themselves in the green darkness of the wolfswood. As he watches, the ghostly visage of Winterfell disappears under a barrage of screeching ice and darkness.

_Winter is coming._

The pups. He remembers them, of course, all of them nearly dead now. He can see their eyes watching him through the ever-shifting mists. Lady, killed so long ago that she is barely a glimmer in the dark. Nymeria, a wild beast, a queen, a hulking monster in the shadows, a growl reverberating deep in her chest and blood dripping from her fangs. Grey Wind, mournful golden eyes blazing out, a wolf’s head on the body of a dead king, staggering in the dark. Shaggydog, blank rage and fear over an eternally frozen snarl. Ghost, an anomaly and a shadow, his name flying in the face of death itself, red eyes burning like embers, like Targaryen fires in the body of a northern beast.

And Summer. Faithful. Brave. And torn asunder on the cusp of winter and death itself, a howl and a whine and one last stand before darkness fell.

The boy’s cheeks feel wet. He touches his face. Tears?

And then he is standing in the middle of the shifting green mists and the shadows of wolves and the ice and all of the darkness flee from him, leaving only dappled starlight, filtering through an overhead canvas of tangled black branches and the leaves of a forest. Nearby looms the majestic bulk of a weirwood tree, its face weeping blood red sap. This is familiar. This is strange. He is... _standing_.

 _But I was flying. He let me fly._ Something constricts in his heart, something suddenly hot, awful, _painful_. _I was flying. I could see all of it. All that ever was._

_Who let you fly, Bran? Wolves are not meant to fly._

It nearly comes back to him then. Winterfell. The battle. Death. Cold. The girl’s—his sister’s, Arya Arya _Arya—_ knife, plunging into the creature’s torso. Ice. Silence. But these are _his_ memories. This is what he could see with his own two eyes, a broken boy sitting in the godswood, surrounded by dead and dying friends. This is him, looking up into the face of the Night King, the traces of humanity long since vanished from the features etched in ice, this creature created by the Children. In the darkness of the godswood, the memory of sitting at the feet of Old Nan comes back to him again.

“ _And with it came walking death and creatures of ice—giants and spiders and spectres of all sizes and the One Who Brings the Storm, thundering down from the Lands of Always Winter. And you have never seen a darkness so great fall across the land...you children have the warning burned into your blood, in the words of this great House_ …”

The words of warning. Of winter. 

Of House Stark.

And Bran Stark, the boy who climbed and dreamed and journeyed and lost, opens his eyes.

He is still standing in the middle of the forest—oh Gods, he is _standing—_ and he knows he is still in a dream of some sort. This is not the godswood of Winterfell but somewhere beyond the Wall—the woods are too wild, the weirwood itself with its macabre face too old. The snow reaches up to his knees and the winter winds are still blowing colder than they ever could even in Winterfell. He remembers this.

But regardless of all of that, regardless of how _real_ the wind and the snow and the oppressing silence seems, he knows it is a dream and it feels as if he is waking from some state of half-sleep, a fogginess that has weighed on him ever since...ever since...

Bran frowns, taking in his surroundings. He remembers the journey north to find the Children and the Three-Eyed Raven, remembers the months spent in the tutelage of the old wizened man-who-was-no-man. But from there it feels as though a dark sheet has been thrown over his memories—he can still see some of what has happened in the nearly two years since he and Meera’s flight south but it almost feels as if he was a mere secondary presence in his own body, a bystander to the events happening to him.

Almost like a puppet.

He flexes his hand uncomfortably and bites his lower lip, feeling the strength in his young body. Right before...this...he recalls a sharp pain lancing through his skull, chased by fear and alarm, a feeling of premonition so strong it has plummeted him into this place. He remembers the silent screams coming from a million voices and none at all, remembers hazily seeing the same flash of agony cross his sister’s—Sansa’s—face before the growing pain became too much to bear and suddenly the voices had died, leaving only a tiny burning flicker of darkness, doubt, and dread, and then...

Bran wavers. Something has happened. He knows this as much as he knows that his name is Brandon Stark, the son of Eddard and Catelyn, brother to Robb and Sansa and Arya and Rickon and...Jon.

_Jon…?_

There. His thoughts stumble. Something has happened in King’s Landing. Something to do with Jon. There was...a fight. Dragons. Fire. Fire and ice. But he can’t see it, anymore than he can clearly see the things that have happened since his desperate escape south with Meera, death and decay at their heels. He had the sight, he is sure of it, but now...now...

It is only then that he realizes that he is not alone in the copse. 

He spins, as much as he is able to in the knee-high snow, and sees a dark figure standing in the shadow of the weirwood. The drooping limbs and the rain of crimson leaves almost obscures them, a shifting shadow in the gloom of pale starlight, and Bran holds back the urge to squint into the darkness. It is a man, he thinks, from the outline of light and darkness, a man wearing the sensible furs and leather of a northerner. He thinks he sees the fate impression of a cloak, made of the same inky shadows, and the lower half of a face...the hint of stubble becoming a little clearer...

Bran hesitates for only a moment. “Who are you?”

The silence that follows is the stentorian silence that only encompasses the world after a snowstorm, a quiet that swallows even the possibility of sound. Bran thinks he sees a smile form on the man’s face—a quirk of sadness, gone like a wraith...

_Bran, you cannot fly._

He startles, taking an uneasy step backwards. There is that voice again, a voice he both knows and doesn’t know, a part of his memory that seems to have been swept away along with the rest. He looks around again for the source before slowly turning back to the figure standing in the shadows. As if the man can read the question across Bran’s face, he slowly nods. 

_I have always wanted to talk to you. But he made it impossible._ They _made it impossible._

Bran stares at him, still not trusting himself to move closer. The shadows dance. “Who made it impossible? Why would you want to talk to me? Who are you?”

 _So many questions._ Yes, that is definitely a smile now. _You were always curious, I can see that now. But the power crushed you—just like it was meant to. In the end, that is how the game is played._ The man steps forward, apparently so much more at ease in the snow than Bran himself. Bran finds himself rooted to his spot, staring and trying to make sense of the nameless voice in his head. The words itch at the back of his mind, the unspoken accusation heavy. The power he had, the power that was now just beyond his reach—it had let him fly, quite literally, given him powers unimaginable to the human mind. It had allowed them to defeat the Night King, to have the chance and the victory over the night and winter.

_Ah. Is that what you think?_

The man emerges from beneath the shelter of the weirwood and yet his face is still obscured in the dancing shadows of night. Bran tries to peer beneath the brim of his hood, to see the face beneath, but every time he sees a glimpse, a faint gasp of a feature, the darkness moves again, cloaking the man in strange anonymity. Bran gives him another questioning look—despite the mystery and the darkness and the strange and beguiling vagueness of his appearance, Bran realizes, with some surprise, that he is not afraid of this man.

Even if he does seem to have the power to read his mind.

 _I cannot see into your thoughts so easily,_ the voice murmurs, laughing slightly at Bran’s resulting glare. _Your face reveals your emotions. And you must know that this is no ordinary dream, no ordinary place._

“Why won’t you show your face?”

The smile grows. _You wouldn’t recognize me. Not anymore._

“From...my memory?” Bran ventures. He can sense the gaps in his memory, the fogginess of the past several months. A part of him wilts at the prospect that his sight is gone, snatched away by something (or someone) so quickly that it nearly makes his head spin. He knows it’s a little selfish, perhaps even wrong, but he can’t help but want it back, the power to see, to help, to keep his family safe. But—and this is the part he tries to shy away from—there is a part of him that loathes the idea of never flying again. Summer is already gone—must he lose this part of himself too?

The man shakes his head, his smile turning a shade sadder. _Oh, little wolf. You still don’t see it, do you? Any gift given by the Children is always poisoned._ He lifts his hand, gesturing to the weirwood. _The old gods will have their due. It is only a matter of time._

Bran shakes his head. “I don’t understand. The Three-Eyed Raven…”

_Think, little wolf. What exactly did the Three-Eyed Raven show you? What did he tell you?_

“Everything!” Bran exclaims, gesturing around him. “The past and the present and the future—he showed me everything. That’s why the Night King wanted to kill him, wanted to kill _me_.” This he can remember a little more clearly, perhaps because the battle took place in his home. He doesn’t remember feeling any fear, just a sense of calm and peace and…

He pauses, glancing down at his hands. A sense of...satisfaction? Smugness? Why…? 

He looks back up at the cloaked man, only to see him nodding. _As I said, any gift given by the Children is always poisoned._

“No, that’s not right,” Bran argues, quenching the memory and the emotions it wrought and trying not to let the man see confusion written across his face. “What I saw helped us defeat the Night King. He would have killed all of us—he would have killed my _family—_ if I hadn’t. It’s...a small price to pay.” He stops and then presses further, a little desperately. “I wanted to fly but...Arya...Sansa...Jon. I couldn’t let them...they’re the only ones I have left. It wasn’t poisoned. They helped me. The Three-Eyed Raven _helped_ me. You don’t understand. Give it back to me. Please. Give it _back_.”

Bran thinks he can almost see the blue of the man’s eyes in the depths of the hood.

 _Bran, what did you_ do _in the battle?_

“I—...” He stops short again, grasping at tattered memories. The battle...yes, he remembers the godswood. The fighting. And...he remembers flying. Watching the battle from the skies. The screams of dragons and of dying men. And then the icy presence of the Night King himself, moments before Arya’s lethal blow. He can feel frustration and anger crawl up his spine—watching, only watching, because of his useless, crippled body. “I was...watching the battle. There was nothing more for me to do.”

_Bran._

He looks up, hearing the heat in the man’s silent words. He is taken aback by the blue glare blazing out from beneath the hood—not the supernatural blue of the dead but a blue that was human and, in their humanity, even more ferocious than the eyes of a thousand and one wights.

_You did not just watch the battle. You knew the battle was lost, knew it from the moment you planted the seeds of those battle plans in the thoughts of your siblings and their comrades. You wanted to make sure there was no chance that the living would survive the night that fell upon Winterfell._

“What…? No! That’s not true! How could you even _think_ that?” Bran shakes his head, biting back a sudden wash of fury in his chest. “You think I’d want my family to _die_ , to join his army?”

 _But you were not_ you _. You were the Three-Eyed Raven...and what is the Three-Eyed Raven but another tool of the Children?_

Bran shakes his head again, as if to dissipate the words of the man in front of him. He wants to deny it, wants to yell that the stranger is a liar, twisting the past to suit his own needs (whoever he is). Bran had seen the past. True, he can’t remember most of it now, but he knows what he saw. And he was there during the battle, knew the stakes, needed his family, the only ones left, to survive.

And still...

He cannot clearly remember sowing the seeds of a ludicrous battle plan (a dream, a whisper, _do it this way..._ ). He cannot clearly remember any of the things he saw beneath the tree with the Children so long ago. His memories are hazy and vague outlines, impressions of the past, knowledge that is just out of reach, emotions and feelings that are not his own gathering dust at the very core of him. There are many things that should be dead and gone, lost to the past, forgotten. But he has dredged them up, with the help of the Children and the greenseer who taught him this power. It is not a curse. It is not a poison. It can’t be. Knowledge is power and that saved them all.

He looks back at the man, opening his mouth to argue—you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re _wrong—_ but he hears the man let out a sigh, a frown etched on the visible part of his face.

_You will not believe me, will you, Bran? No matter what I say, and the man you would believe you no longer know. And I cannot offer you the sight you want, not like this. And not without you understanding that the gift you could possess is no gift at all, not the way you are currently wielding it._

“You don’t understand,” Bran snaps back at him. “You weren’t there.”

For some reason, the man laughs quietly, almost sadly.

_I do understand, perhaps more than you know. But you are young and stubborn, Bran Stark. And you will not listen to the voice of someone you view as a stranger._

And the man lifts his gloved hands to his hood and slowly lowers it, meeting Bran’s eyes solemnly. 

“So how about the voice of someone you loved?”

There is a roar in Bran’s ears, and his heart feels as if it has dropped past his body and into the snow and the heart of the earth. A voice of someone he loves—he knows this face. No, no, no—how could he ever forget, not even when it has been years and years and years, separated by war and death and loss...so much loss. 

And the last time he had seen him, he had been saying goodbye.

 _“Don’t be scared_..."

Bran’s breath hitches and suddenly he is ten again, broken and scared and innocent of all the terrible things in the world still to come.

“...Robb?”

The man—Robb, oh Gods, _please—_ shakes his head, smiling sadly, and Bran can feel his heart crumble to pieces.

“Little brother, grown so tall,” the man who is not his brother says quietly in a voice that Bran knows and remembers and longs for, gone so far away and for so many years, that lasting image of the young man in furs and boiled leather, hand on his cheek, saying farewell, unbeknownst to any of them except Rickon that it would be a goodbye that lasted forever. Everything about this stranger who is no stranger shrieks of the past—the handsome face, the reddish-brown curls, the blue-gray eyes, the look of a Tully wearing the spirit of a northerner—and Bran wants to both run to him and _from_ him, as fast as his dream legs will take him.

“I need you to listen to me,” the stranger with a brother’s face and voice is saying. “You do not know me anymore but I want to help you.” He splays his hands in front of him, palms upwards. Bran can sense the urgency in his tone and his voice but he cannot see past the face of his brother, of the young wolf who was savagely killed by someone he had trusted all those years ago.

“Why...?” he manages to whisper, his voice strangled. “Robb was...you shouldn’t..."

“Because the last thing your brother told you was to not be scared,” the man says, and Bran swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat. He knows that it is a trick, a dream, but this man sounds so much like the brother he lost, the brother he looked up to for so many years.

_Be brave like Robb..._

The man furrows his brow, his lips pressed together in concentration. “We do not have much time—you will wake up soon and this is the only way I can communicate with you since I..." He stops here, lets out a harsh breath through his nose. “Please, Bran. Trust me. I mean you no harm.”

His mind and his heart are racing. He wants to say no. He wants to demand his sight back, wants to shout that he should fly again as the Three-Eyed Raven. It isn’t fair, he thinks. This man has shown up, when the battle has been won, when the night has receded into memory, to tell him...what? It was all for nothing? That Bran had not wanted the night to end, wanted his remaining siblings slaughtered? No, no—that can’t be true. Bran knows it mustn’t be true—but...

But.

He looks around at the dark and silent forest, the overgrown wild of trees, and the massive and imposing face of the weirwood. He does not need to fear an army of wights, nor any of the nightmares that once lived past the Wall. They were gone now. He had helped destroy them all. And yet, even with the gray fog of his memories, even with the gaps so glaring that he should choke, he remembers the screams. The terror. Old magic. Older than the Wall itself. Fire and ice.

Dragons. Wolves. And one who is both.

Bran looks back at the stranger. “You told me that it was a curse, my power. Why?” His voice sounds thready, unsure. He sounds like a boy.

He _is_ a boy. Barely a man grown.

Familiar blue eyes shift away to the weirwood and the bloody grimace grooved into the white bark.

“Not the power of greensight,” he explains. “The power of the Three-Eyed Raven. He was protected by the Children for decades—why?”

Bran hesitates. And then, quietly: “He—I— _we_ are the living memory of man. The Night King wanted to destroy us. That was what he was created by the Children to do. To destroy the First Men who were killing the Children. They lost control. He became too powerful.” He pauses, as the barest throbs of a headache dance at the corner of his mind. “The Children and the First Men fought against Night King in the War for the Dawn. But he came back. To erase the world and its memory. Me.”

Robb—no, _not_ Robb—meets his gaze, and there is frustrated sadness in those blue eyes, so deep and profound that Bran bites his tongue to keep from assuring the stranger that everything is alright now. The battle is won. They won. The darkness has fled.

“That is a lie.”

That...is not what he expected. 

Before he can argue, the man who is not Robb continues, walking towards him. “The Children wanted to preserve their way of life. The First Men came from Essos to slaughter them, to conquer them and the giants and all the wild of Westeros. So they created a weapon from the very blood of their enemy, a man with the power of all the forces of winter itself. And when the Long Night ended, death and winter were banished by the power of fire. The First Men barricaded themselves from the Night King and the Old Gods and the power of the Children themselves.” The man looks south and Bran follows his gaze and though he cannot see it beyond the darkness and the trees, he knows what the man has turned towards. 

The Wall.

“That is the story they told you,” the stranger murmurs. “But the wars between the First Men and the Children ended long before the Night King turned against them. And the power of greensight is rare but not unheard of. No, the man you knew as the Three-Eyed Raven is not so old as you think. And he was once a regular man just like you. Just like the Night King.”

Bran blinks, curiosity finally overcoming the sinking pit of dread and heartbreak in his chest. “He was...as old as the Night King?”

The stranger chuckles at that. “No. Not nearly. But he was a man that the Children hoped could end the reign of winter when it came again. After all, they had seen what fire could do to ice.”

Fire and ice.

Dragons and wolves.

“Wait,” Bran says slowly. It feels as if his head is going to explode. “He was a greenseer. He could only _see_ things. He didn’t have...he wasn’t..."

The stranger cocks his head to the side.

“Some names are lost to time, Bran Stark, but there has only ever been one House in Westeros so closely associated with fire.”

Fire and blood.

A beautiful white-haired woman, on the back of a massive black beast spitting flames. A dark-eyed young man dressed in blacks, a heart burned back to life through the power of a red god.

“A Targaryen is whom they thought they needed. A Targaryen is whom they chose. And they failed. Next time, they told themselves, they would choose better.” He looks away then, closing his eyes. “The Children’s gifts are no gifts. They waited for a very long time but this was always their land, the land of the old gods. They would get it back, one way or another. Whether the world ended in fire or whether it ended in ice, it made no matter. Men would pay for their atrocities and there would be no one to sing of their deeds.”

The man looks back at him then, and there is that sadness again, and grief and a strange and foreign determination. And— _anger_ , a righteous fury threatening to boil over in the face of someone young and dead before his time.

"But you cannot see a shadow. And neither could they."

A shadow? 

No.

A nameless creature.

A faceless man.

A she-wolf.

"Arya," Bran breathes. "Arya wasn't supposed to..."

The man's look is solemn, apologetic. 

"No. And now we stand here at the brink again. Bran, you must understand— _none of this was supposed to happen_. The old powers—fire and ice—should destroy each other or send everything back into balance. And they _didn't_. Something went wrong. The war hasn't ended. The players have changed but the night did not end in Winterfell." 

Bran looks away.

"It's her, isn't it? The power of the Night King...it's in her now."

"Bran..."

And there is a buzzing in his ear and heat in his chest and he can see his brother's face fading into the nothingness of the waking world. The man—the stranger—looks alarmed and Bran watches as his mouth moves, urgency in every line of his face, shaking his head, but Bran is already too far gone. The forest and the snow and the darkness vanish, down into the pit, and whispers...whispers of old gods in his ear, whispers of the dead and the dying and of an old woman, weaving stories to a child who would grow up and become...become...

Bran takes a breath and opens his eyes. Any residual grogginess is burning away like ash in the hearth only a few feet away. There is a girl sitting on his bed, staring at him. A girl he knows. A girl he...abandoned? He bites his lip to keep from crying out in frustration—the memories are still gone, his greensight just beyond his reach. 

Has the man taken it? Who _was_ he?

"Bran..."

He shakes his head, sitting up and fighting a wave of dizziness. Not now. He cannot think about any of this now. He looks up at the pale face of his one-time companion, wants to reach out and touch her cheek, to throw himself into her arms. Meera. He has...missed her? Yes. Yes, he missed her. That feeling is all his own. The Raven would not miss anyone. Maybe. Perhaps. He can't remember.

"Meera, find Sansa," he says, trying not to wince as her face falls. "Please. I'm sorry. For everything. I didn't mean—it was—... _please_ , Meera. You have to find Sansa. We have to get word to King's Landing." Flashes of memory. Images of the capital. Death. 

And fire.

He can't _remember_.

Meera stares back at him, and he can see the confusion starting to dawn on her face. The gray spots in his memory make him dizzy, the hurt on her face even more so—what had he become?

"Bran, are you...?"

"Arya and Jon are in trouble, Meera. Please. Find Sansa."

He watches as she hesitates for a moment longer and then she is gone. He collapses back against the pillows of the bed.

Only then does he see the raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Currently in Singapore for the next six weeks of my life for work. Currently sans any of the physical ASOIAF books so relying on the ASOIAF wiki and the GOT wiki. Currently hoping the mistakes aren’t too glaring. Currently realizing that this may not actually be solved in 42 chapters but I will make sense of the Season 8 narrative if it’s the last thing I do.
> 
> The inspiration for Bran's memory of the Stark kids listening to Old Nan's stories comes from Jenny Dolfen's beautiful watercolor in "The Art of Ice and Fire".


	10. The Heir

There is no blood on the floor.

 _Breathe_ _in_.

He sits on the steps in front of the Iron Throne, Longclaw resting sheathed across his lap, and, tearing his gaze away from the empty floor, looks up at the low drifting clouds overhead, snowflakes and ash dancing down to rest and melt in his dark hair and on his battle-stained clothing. Once, a thousand and one lifetimes ago, another young man, golden and arrogant and soon to be damned, sat in this very space, the still warm corpse of a king at his feet, blood soaking the marble floors. 

This is where it ended. 

This is where it began. 

And his hands, absent of the blood of that king’s daughter, absent of the slaying and of all the horrors and betrayal it would have wrought...those hands curl into fists and he closes his eyes, letting the remnants of fire and ice ghost across his face. At his side, also still sheathed, is the dagger that had been meant to end the life of the Mother of Dragons. As the end of the world continues to rain down from the foreboding sky, he wonders what it would have meant to plunge it into her heart. 

_Breathe out._

He can feel the heat of their kiss on his lips, the fire and the passion and every good and unspoken thing in the world in that embrace, beneath the blackened and fallen beams of a great castle. He can still sense _her_ , more than he ever could before—a wild heat, the wide-eyed wonder, the red blood of a dragon. That kiss—it was meant to be the final one, the unspoken goodbye, regret and duty and honor all tied into it. 

And yet when he kissed her, it felt like the world itself had shattered, in the song of dragons and the roar of all the forces of winter, drowned out by the scream of two _real_ dragons, their shadows circling over the decimated and ash-strewn castle.

_Breathe in._

Something in him _burns_. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and chase away the throbbing in his skull. Was it like this when he was resurrected (a fleeting memory— _they think you’re some kind of god—_ snow and ice and _regret_ and eyes all on him)? There was the cold, of course. And the darkness. Confusion and fear and shock and the idea that this body did not fit as it used to, that there was _something_ off, as if all the aspects of the room of his body and mind had been moved an inch to the left. It was nothing so drastic as to alarm everyone else (save for being alive when he was once dead) but it was enough to tease at the back of his mind, of the world no longer being _quite_ correct.

It feels like that again. A murmur of wrongness. A whisper of change after that roar of an embrace and a kiss. Last time, it had made him thoughtless. Impulsive.

_I keep hearing stories about you, bastard…_

Had it stayed his hand this time?

_Breathe out._

“Jon.”

Right...right. He had forgotten.

Jon opens his eyes and gazes across the throne room, keeping his expression impassive as he meets the eyes of the man who, in another life, would have found him cradling the corpse of the queen. Davos is watching him warily, and Jon does not have to guess as to why. With a weary and frustrated sigh, he says, “You’ve spoken with Tyrion.”

The older man grimaces. 

“Aye.” Davos pauses and then takes a few steps forward. “I, ah, have noticed that Daenerys is not..." He trails off, eyes darting around to the shadows, as if he expects to be attacked for even mentioning the queen’s name. He lowers his voice, and Jon can hear the bafflement and concern lancing through this tone. “Why?”

Why.

A simple question, honestly. And yet.

Jon does not respond for several long moments. His head is pounding with a ferocity that makes him want to cringe—it feels as if one of Dany’s dragons is screaming right into the very depth of him. He can almost hear his heartbeat, a beat for every throb in his head. He wants to let go, wants to vanish for an unknown amount of time, away from the duties and responsibilities that have weighed on him for years now. It would be so easy to just...

Why.

He clenches his jaw and slowly rises to his feet, looping Longclaw back into his swordbelt. 

“A wise man once told me that honor comes easy when there is no cost to it,” he finally says, his tone pensive, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He watches Davos’s eyes flicker towards it, feels something unknown briefly flare in his heart and his head. He tries to ignore it. “I’ve done the honorable thing all my life, and have been called a traitor because of it. But I stood by those decisions, no matter what it cost me. I stood by them with the wildlings. With the Watch. With the North itself. Now you all would ask me to do one more honorable thing, one more good _impossible_ thing for the sake of the realm.”

“Easy, lad.” Davos holds up his hands and Jon sees the concern ripple across his face. “Easy. I’m on your side. It’s just..." He seems to look past Jon, to the Iron Throne, and the gray sky and rising smoke just beyond. “It’s easier to be on your side right now than hers.”

Easier.

Nothing about this is _easy_. All of it—every single last damnable decision he has ever made and continues to make—they all _burn_.

Davos must see the looming storm on his face because he continues, “I’ve watched the two of you for nearly a year now, ever since Dragonstone. You know her better than anyone still living. You’ve defended her when no one else has. You trust her. You love her. So I’d think you of all people would know why she did what she did. And if there’s any hope that the queen you believe in still lives, she’d at least answer to you.”

Jon turns away. “She doesn’t need to answer to me.”

He can feel the _weight_ of Davos’s stare on him and his mind immediately wanders to Dany. Powerful, confident, loved—and then to come to these shores, to come _home_ , and have the judgmental eyes of all the Westerosi on her. Every action, every word of caution given by advisers who failed her over and over again, everything she did, weighed and measured and judged long before she even stepped foot on the eastern shores of the continent. Her allies—from Dorne to the Iron Islands to the Reach—had been slaughtered until there was nothing except the North to stand by her.

Nothing but the North.

_And we’re doing the right thing telling you we don’t trust your queen._

The storm in his head gets louder and he closes his eyes.

“I can’t..." he starts and then halts, willing that burn of _something_ in him (dragonfire and winter gales and oh how it all _screams_ at him) to die away. It must be the end of the matter. It must. “Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve fought for and lost—the _people_ we’ve lost—none of it means a thing if I had killed her. It may have been an honorable thing, a reasonable thing, even justifiable. But...that didn’t make it right. And what she did...it wasn’t right either. But I couldn’t kill her. Not like that. Not after I…”

He trails off.

_You are my queen. Now and always._

How many times must he break his word?

Davos is quiet for a very long moment. And then, “Well...not to say that I completely understand but I suppose there are bigger problems to deal with now.” He hesitates only briefly before Jon impatiently gestures for him to continue. Grimacing, he adds, “You know I’m not one for prophecies or magic or any of this. Or at least, I tried not to be. The Red Woman’s god seemed to fuck off right after Winterfell, I told myself. Or maybe he died with her. I don’t know. What I do know is that she was insistent that fire was the thing that would burn away the Night King’s forces. Last I checked, Starks don’t have an affinity for fire.”

“She was wrong before,” Jon replies, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “With Stannis. With me. Arya killed him with Valyrian steel. It makes no matter. The night is over.”

Davos shifts and looks so much as if he is bursting to explain something that a part of Jon wants to humor him, just for a moment, to see what the older man has to say. But a larger part of him—and he’s not sure why or what this is—is screaming at him to find Dany, to find the dragon. Something has settled uncomfortably in his heart, and his desire to find her, to be with her, is nearly overwhelming in its intensity. So instead, he gives Davos a short nod before brushing past him to follow in the same direction that Dany went.

The Onion Knight’s voice though stops him again.

“I just thought...it’d be a damned shame if she was right.”

Something about in Davos’s words and his words just moments earlier come back to mind. And he recalls his conversation with Tyrion, right before he was sent on a so-called mission of mercy, to kill the Dragon Queen and save the realm. One more thing. One small little thing.

_Our queen’s nature is fire and blood._

_You’ve been up there, on a dragon’s back. You’ve had that power._

_Would you have done it?_

Jon looks around at the charred remnants of the throne room, the carpet of ash and snow at his feet. He had told Tyrion he didn’t know. But if he had lost Arya and Bran and Sansa and Sam and Davos and Tormund and all of those whom he loved and admired and respected, blow after blow after blow, to be looked at like a monster, whispered about, mistrusted, conspired against...would he have done it?

Fire and blood.

Finally Jon sighs, his fury dampened by his sheer weariness. He turns his head slightly so he can see Davos out of the corner of his eye. “You knew.”

He sees the other man nod—clearly no need to explain what Jon was referring to. “Tyrion told me. When I was helping him with his brother.”

He should have known. “You learned from Tyrion. And Tyrion was told by Sansa. And Sansa was told by me.”

“I’d imagine a secret like that...it’s too big, too important. You can’t stop it once it’s out there.”

_It will take on a life of its own and you won’t be able to control it or what it does to people. No matter how many times you bend the knee, no matter how many times you swear._

_I’ve never begged for anything but I’m begging you. Don’t do this. Please._

Gods, had he been so foolish to believe Sansa would not conspire against him? Arya, perhaps, would have remained silent. But Sansa...the girl who had loved lemon cakes and stories of knights and romance had spent too many years in the tutelage of Cersei and Littlefinger and Ramsay Bolton. She had learned too much from people who had betrayed others for the whisper of power, who had too deftly played a game of thrones. Even if he doesn’t doubt her love for family—no, the blood of the North is too thick to fall prey even to the ambition wiles of the south—Dany had been right. He had been too trusting. Too impetuous. Too naive. 

Once upon a time, he would have known better.

And not for the first time since he watched as the men he had fought alongside slaughter a city, he wonders if all of this could have been avoided if he had simply kept his word.

 _Or if Bran—no, the_ Raven— _had never told Sam…_

There is that nearly unfathomable _burn_ again in his mind, something powerful and dark and unknown, and Jon brushes it off—he won’t allow this to consume him, this doubt. He can’t. After every mistake he has made since the oblivion of death, mistakes now too numerous to count, he refuses to allow this doubt to grow anymore. Besides, whatever magic has resurrected Rhaegal, this is a more pressing issue. Nothing and no one, as far as he knows, is capable of resurrecting a beast of that size, not anymore. Melisandre is gone. The Night King is gone. And the smoldering fires of Valyria and the shadows of Asshai are leagues and leagues away.

He remembers the kiss again and the feeling that the world around was splintering, burning, shrieking with archaic spells, and…

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, half to himself and half to Davos, shaking his head. And then he is gone, following the small footprints of the Dragon Queen towards the outer courtyard. He doesn’t turn to see if Davos is following him. At this point, he doesn’t care.

Jon remembers the last time he had been in this godsforsaken city, in a desperate—and as it turned out, pointless—ploy to convince Cersei to join their fight against the Night King and the army of the dead. Months later, he is still not sure on whose shoulders the failure of that mission sits. On his, for underestimating Cersei’s cruelty and selfishness? On Tyrion’s, for foolishly believing that the sister who hated him would keep her word? Surely it makes no matter now, with the Lannister queen and a good portion of the city itself dead or dying—but Jon still cannot look around, at the crumbling towers and the plumes of smoke, and not see the culmination of his own failures. The very foundation of this city screams with the words _if only, if only, if only_...

It does not take him long to find Dany—even in the maze that is King’s Landing, it is difficult to ignore the presence of two mammoth beasts and the dragonsong that soars higher even the smoking ruins of the city. She stands in the middle of one of the outer courtyards that Jon can tell had not existed a mere few days ago. Even from his vantage point, he can sense the sheer drop of the cliff just beyond the crumpled walls, can see the blue-black expanse of the Blackwater—the former grave of the green-and-bronze dragon currently nuzzling his scaled snout against his mother’s hand. Drogon watches the pair of them from where he rests just behind Dany, one eye lazily opened, seemingly at peace after his rampant run of destruction.

Jon eyes Rhaegal carefully. He was not with Dany when the Greyjoy pirate mortally injured the dragon but try as he might, he cannot see anywhere on Rhaegal’s body that speaks of grievous injuries. When Viserion had been felled and later resurrected by the Night King, the dragon that descended onto Winterfell breathing blue flames had clearly been a flying corpse—his wings tattered, his scales falling off by the multitudes, the scent of death and decay overwhelming. The dragon in front of him now, however, seems as hale and healthy as when Jon had last seen him weeks ago.

He approaches Dany silently, listening as she murmurs words in what sounds like High Valyrian. He realizes, with some surprise, that she is crying.

“Dany..." He watches as her hand halts, her words dying to nothing. He allows her a moment to collect herself— _she hates to be seen as weak, tears are a weakness she believes she cannot afford—_ before taking a few more steps forwards her. She turns then, her eyes clear if a little red around the rims, and gives him a small smile of relief. He returns the smile before nodding at Rhaegal. “How is he?”

Dany turns back towards her child and lets out a laugh that could nearly be a sob. “Well...his eyes aren’t blue.” 

Jon wants to embrace her immediately, feeling the confusion and relief emanating from this woman he loves in waves. Instead he says, “The Night King didn’t bring him back to life.”

“Then what did?” Dany lets out a shaky breath. “‘Only death can pay for life.’ That is what the witch told me all those years ago. I don’t understand it, Jon. I wanted it. I wanted it so _badly_. I had everything else—why not one of my children? But...it’s impossible. I feel as if I’m waiting for it all to come crashing down, for me to lose him again. Maybe lose them both. But he feels...normal.”

Jon frowns. “How can you tell?"

“He is my _child_ , Jon,” Dany replies, the heat of her words nearly smothered by the small hitch in her voice. “A mother knows when her children are sick, when they are dying. Rhaegal is alive. He is _alive_ , Jon. And I don’t understand how. I saw him. I _saw_ him fall and plunge into the sea. Just like Viserion. I should have lost him. He should be gone, just like his brother, but he’s here and I don’t understand. I don’t... _understand…_ ”

And then she is in his arms again and he can feel her shuddering with some emotion that seems greater than merely seeing her dead child living and breathing and well again. He can smell the smoke in her hair, can feel the blazing heat of her body, but now he can see her not as a conqueror, not as some vengeful white-haired goddess, breathing destruction and fire and blood on a city, but merely a grieving woman, a girl who had not been taught how to mourn, loss after loss after loss, standing at the end of the world, alone. And he would have betrayed her too, shoving a dagger into her heart, because of the threat she had become.

_I don’t have love here. I only have fear._

Fear _of_ her...or her own fear, threatening her, consuming her?

It would be easy, even now, to end her life. 

For duty. For honor. 

Because he always did the right thing.

He lets out a shaky breath, tightening his grip on her, and wishing the pounding in his head, the ineffable unease of something, as if screaming from a locked corner of his mind, would vanish.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, Dany pulls away from him slightly. She looks up at him, looking wan. There is something in her eyes—hope? Caution? “Jon...tell me truthfully. Please. Before...in the throne room...you spoke with Tyrion, didn’t you?”

What was the point in lying? He had never been very good at it. He gives her a single brief nod.

It is enough. She untangles herself from his embrace. “He wants me dead.”

“That isn’t his choice to make.”

“No,” Dany whispers, looking back at him, her expression suddenly inscrutable. “No, he made it yours, didn’t he? That’s why you came to me—to decide if I should live. Isn’t it?”

It would be easy to make excuses. It’s what he’s been doing for months, hasn’t it? Making excuses for Sansa. For the North. For Tyrion. For Daenerys herself. Excuses and failed arguments—he has left behind him a trail of destruction so wide that he cannot even begin to grasp the scope of it. If Dany is guilty of slaughter, then he is just as guilty for pushing her there. Did he think, in coming to the throne room, a dagger sheathed at his side, that in killing her, he would absolve himself?

_I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn…_

...no, that’s not right.

Is it?

Jon meets her unreadable expression and lets out a heavy sigh. “My father always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. The first time a man of the Night’s Watch told us about the Walkers, my father called him a deserter and took his head from his shoulders. Perhaps it was the right thing to do. But considering what we faced, perhaps it wasn’t.” He looks away. “We could pass judgment too quickly and regret it in some form eventually. If my father had believed that man, maybe there are things we never would have lost, _people_ we never would have lost. I don’t know. I can’t change the past. I just know…”

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

He stops.

The right decision. The right thing. He has always tried, hasn’t he? To be honorable, to be good, to be like his father. But it turns out that Eddard Stark was not his father at all. It was a much-loved, much-respected Targaryen prince. And maybe, just maybe, doing what was right as a Stark would never be as right as doing something as a Targaryen.

A flipped coin. 

“You told me I’ve always known what the right thing is,” he finally says quietly. “Maybe...just once...I wanted to do the wrong thing.”

She stares at him silently for a very long time. There is no judgment in her eyes, no anger, no wariness—she is only watching him. And he lets her, standing silent, waiting for her to come to some decision about him. In his mind’s eye, he can see the coin, turning and turning and turning, fire and ice, fire and blood...

 _And the wolves would_ kneel.

The thought is so sudden and so startling that he nearly flinches away from it. Where had _that_ come from? 

“You told me there were wolves about,” Dany is saying and the mention of the Stark’s sigil aloud, so close to that alarmingly fleeting thought in his own mind, makes his jaw clench. She is still watching him carefully, clearly choosing her words. “Were you warning me about yourself?”

“No,” he says, and the confirmation of it makes his mind reel. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Your sisters..."

“You are my blood _and_ my queen.” Despite the warning growl behind Dany from Rhaegal, Jon steps forward, reaching up to rest a hand on her cheek. The burn pulsing in his head and his heart _screams_. “Please. Let me be wrong. Let them say I made a mistake. But I choose you because I _know_ you, Dany. I have faith in you.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “And what I’ve done—”

Ah. 

This will always be the unspoken judgment between them, what Tyrion himself had pinpointed. Jon is the harbinger of salvation, Dany a force of destruction. When rage and grief had finally overcome her, she had taken her dragon to the city to burn it down; Jo had, perhaps hopelessly, tried to save it. But—

But.

He shakes his head. “You said you know what is good. That the world we need, the world we’ll create, will have mercy.”

“I can’t forgive treason, Jon.” There is steel in her voice but she doesn’t step back. “I won’t. Don’t ask it of me. They will look the other way for you because of who you are. They will never do it for me.”

“And who am I?” There is bitterness in his tone that he can’t quite quench.

“A good man,” Dany says quietly, her pale eyes luminous and beautiful and sad. “Better than most. A man whom…” She trails off, tries again. “A man whom I trust to break the wheel with me, if he trusts me to do what is good.”

What is good.

What _is_ good? And what is right?

Gods.

Neither of them say anything for a very, very long moment.

It is only the arrival of one of the Unsullied--not Grey Worm, Jon notes with some mild surprise—that causes them to step away from each other. The eunuch looks grim.

“My queen.”

Dany steps slightly away from Jon and he watches as the cool mantle of a queen slides over her small form. “Speak, Loyal One. What is the matter?”

The expression on the face of the Unsullied soldier—Loyal One, apparently—seems to become even more grim, and Jon sees him quickly glance over at him before returning his attention to his queen. The look had been too brief to decipher but Jon cannot dispel the sudden itch at the back of his neck that something is not right. As if to confirm it, the soldier immediately begins talking in Valyrian but Dany holds up a hand to stop him. “No. I will have no secrets kept from the Warden of the North, Loyal One.”

“Yes, my queen.” Jon watches the corners of the soldier’s eyes tighten, as if in displeasure. “But it is the Warden’s sister we discuss.”

Sister.

Arya.

 _No_.

Dany’s expression remains calm. “What of her?”

“She has injured Torgo Nudho. Badly. But our commander has dealt her injury too. She is with the small man. We await direction from our queen.” The soldier is trying so hard not to glare at Jon that he might as well be outright staring. 

Dany is silent for several moments. She turns to look at Jon.

“He says your sister injured my master of war.” He cannot read her tone but her eyes are cold. She says nothing more, clearly waiting for him to make a decision.

Has he already made his decision?

“Don’t judge her yet,” he says. Dany’s expression doesn’t change but Jon can see disappointment—in him—flood her eyes. His mouth presses into a firm line. “All I ask is that you _talk_ to her before you decide.”

“Because she is your sister, you mean. I should treat her differently.”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. There is that burn again. “Because she is the one who killed the Night King. If you do anything to her without just cause, the ones who fought in the North will desert you.” He doesn’t add, _Sansa won’t have to do a thing to win their support away from you_. He doesn’t have to. He knows that she already knows. He sees it in the way the disappointment abates from her eyes, the way she nods her head at his words.

“Loyal One, make sure Arya Stark is restrained.” She gives Jon a look. “I will speak with her shortly.”

The soldier nods, turning on his heel and leaves. Dany gives Jon one long appraising look before she too is gone, leaving him alone in the courtyard with two dragons. Drogon snorts his apparent disapproval of the entire conversation in a shower of sparks before tucking his head beneath one of his wings, clearly having had enough of human squabbles and conversations for the day. 

Jon looks back at Rhaegal. The dragon named after his father. The dragon that had fallen into the sea, only to rise as if nothing had ever happened, weeks later. He remembers again the feeling of the world tearing itself apart, in the roar of flames and ash and ice and northern gales, the end of days and of all things, in a single kiss with the mother of dragons. 

He lifts his hand to brush his fingers across the heated green and bronze scales of the dragon’s hide.

He feels...cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What you say is reasonable, logical, justifiable. But does that make it right?" - the variation that Jon uses in this chapter comes from Uncanny X-Men #140. I felt it was a fitting quote for Jon's current emotional state. Maybe not for his mysterious headache but...
> 
> Next chapter: The Wayward Serpent (if anyone wants to take a crack at the POV)


	11. The Wayward Serpent

Olyvar Martell spins a dagger between his calloused fingers at a worrying pace, the other hand lazily swirling a cup of scarlet liquid. After a moment, he stops, lifts the cup to his lips and, with a deft flick of his wrist, sends the dagger in his other hand flying. It pierces a letter—already pinned to the wall with three other daggers—with a dull _thump_.

He turns away and places the cup down on a table. His expression never shifts.

The easier option, he knows, would simply be to burn the damned thing. Judging from the looks that the servants keep sharing between themselves as he lets dagger after dagger shred the letter into unreadable strips, his face carefully blank, it also probably would have been preferred. And truly told, the _proper_ thing to do would have been to respond with a raven or fifty in the hopes that they might have shat over the rest of Westeros on their journey north. Upon revealing this thought to his maester (newly instated, just like himself, gods Ellaria and the Sand Snakes had made sure to clear out _all_ of the old power in Sunspear), the older man had looked so stricken by the idea that Olyvar had briefly wondered if the old man’s heart was about to fail him. 

But no, the maester had hurriedly suggested ideas about diplomacy and patience and political strategizing and Olyvar had tuned him out soon after, the image of flying daggers already illuminating his mind. 

He walks towards the battered letter, jerking three of the daggers out from the wall—they were sunk in nearly to the hilt. Doran, he thinks bitterly and not for the first time, would have known what to do ( _eldest brother, wise and crippled and cautious, bleeding on the ground in his dreams, pale eyes accusing—why did you leave, why why why_ ). Even Oberyn, in all of his hot-headed vindictiveness, would at least have known the honeyed yet poisoned words to send north.

Instead, Dorne has been gifted with their wayward younger brother to plot their future.

Olyvar snatches up the letter to keep it from fluttering to the ground in tatters as he removes the last dagger from the wall. It has been several weeks since a letter bearing the Targaryen seal arrived in Sunspear, and just a few less since one with the golden Lannister sigil made its way into his hands. And though Olyvar does not profess to have the same political acumen as his brothers, it did not take him long to decipher the threat between the lines of both letters: ally yourself and Dorne with us or be destroyed. At least the dragon queen had expressed sympathy about the death of his brothers, promising fire and blood upon those who had desecrated the Martell family name. The lion queen, however, seemed to believe that everyone who was born with the blood of one of the Great Houses wanted to rule, that _he_ wanted to rule, stepping past the bloodied corpses of his estranged but beloved older brothers for power, always for _power_.

He crumples the letter in his hand and slams one of the daggers back into the wall with such ferocity, the servants in the room with him jump. 

“What did that wall ever do to you, Uncle?”

Olyvar grimaces and sheathes the other daggers on his person before slipping the half-ruined letter into his tunic. He knows it is only diplomatic to respond to it but that doesn’t mean he has to do anytime soon. Instead, he turns to glance at the newly arrived occupant in the room, a faint smile dawning on his lips—at least this isn’t a source of irritation. There is a weight at his hip that could threaten to dislodge that smile but he keeps it hidden in the long folds of his tunic.

“Are _you_ berating me, little one? I still remember you playing hopfrog out in the dunes and making a mess of your hair when you were barely at my waist.”

Sarella Sand laughs as she lowers her hood and starts peeling off her gloves—winter has arrived even in the farthest reaches of Dorne. Despite the travel stains on her clothing, she looks remarkably well-refreshed, her dusky-brown skin glowing, her black eyes—her _father’s_ eyes—glittering with mirth. But Olyvar knows better and senses his brother’s poisonous cunning and wiles in his bastard daughter. It is the same red-blooded fury that ended with the Viper’s skull smashed to bits in the Mountain’s hands, that decorated a kraken’s ship with the mangled bodies of two of his daughters. 

His niece is already pouring herself a cup of the blood red wine from a flask on the table, a waterfall of braids cascading over one shoulder as she leans over. “I never expected to see you back in Dorne again,” she says amiably, raising the cup to her lips. Her Dornish accent is subdued, diluted by traces of the Westerlands. “Let alone Sunspear.”

It is a question and a challenge— _why are you here, Uncle?_

Gods, he wishes he didn't have to answer that.

“One could say the same of you,” he replies, making a dismissive gesture towards the servants. That at least is something he remembers from his childhood, before the battles and before everything soured. The servants nod their heads respectfully before not-quite-fleeing from the room. Olyvar turns a chair at the table and straddles it backwards, folding his arms over the back of it and looking up at Sarella curiously. “Doran told me you were in Oldtown.”

“ _I_ came back for my little sisters. But he was right, yes. I was playing games with the maesters.” Sarella shrugs out of her cloak and flings it onto the back of another chair closer to the hearth. Though a Sand Snake as much as her half-sisters, she carries no visible weapons on her person—certainly nothing like Nym’s whip or Obara’s spear. But Olyvar rarely parades his weapons either. It seems as if even though all of the Sand Snakes were gifted with the Viper’s prowess, only one received Doran’s discretion.

Not that it had served him well.

Olyvar shakes off the thought and cocks an eyebrow. “The Citadel then?”

“A bunch of toothless old men and young men still in swaddling clothes spouting philosophy and history but still…” Sarella drains her cup and then grins. “Their libraries are incomparable.”

Doran had not revealed much in that particular letter to Olyvar—no, their communication was still too cool and strained after Olyvar had taken his leave of Dorne all those years ago—but Sarella’s adventures in the Westerlands had inevitably piqued his interest. Olyvar’s insatiable wanderlust had always been a point of contention between himself and his older brothers but at least it seems as if one of his nieces was gifted with the same undying thirst. Even now, he still feels a remarkable kinship with the young woman, perhaps the only bright spot in this long dreary tunnel that began the moment he heard of Oberyn’s death in King’s Landing.

“They take women now at the Citadel?” he asks with a faint smile, waving his hand as Sarella gestures to the flask of Dornish red. She shakes her head, her own smile turning rakish as she pours herself more wine.

“Of course not,” she replies playfully. “Why do you think it was a game?”

“That’s incorrigible.” But there is laughter in his tone. “You managed to avoid the worst of the wars too, it sounds like.”

She shrugs, her smile slipping. “We both did. You in Essos, me in Oldtown—the black sheep who made it through with our heads still attached to our necks. The gods probably find some justice in that.” She sits then, her brow furrowed as she tilts her cup with one finger. Bits of gold woven through her braids wink in the firelight. She seems to be contemplating some great unimaginable _puzzle_ and Olyvar doesn’t dare to interrupt her. He heard that note of accusation in her voice again. He can’t avoid that discussion for much longer.

Instead, he swings his chair around to sit in it properly before reaching across the table to pour himself a cup of wine. The vintage is bold and spicy, burning on its way down his throat like the sweetest poison one could ever hope to die from. A perfect Dornish wine. He thinks back on Sarella’s words, about the justice of the gods. He knows what befell his brothers these past few years—Oberyn dying at the hands of the same man who slew Elia, Doran and Trystane assassinated by Ellaria and the Sand Snakes. And then Ellaria and the members of her coup, captured or killed in their quest for vengeance. 

_The gods demand much from House Martell, in the name of justice. They take and they take and they take and we keep giving..._

Justice.

His fingers drum a staccato rhythm on the table. “I have pledged Dorne’s allegiance to the Dragon Queen.” Sarella gives him a long, appraising look before reaching for her cup and downing the rest of her glass again. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. Olyvar thinks she intends to get very drunk. He doesn’t blame her.

“Yes, I thought you might’ve.”

“Do you think it was a poor decision?”

She is silent for a very long moment, her eyes cast away. Olyvar waits.

Finally, she lets out an angry sigh. “House Martell has a troubled history with the Targaryens. And this particular Targaryen...well, I’ve heard stories at the Citadel from Winterfell. The last thing Dorne needs is to involve itself in the affairs of dragons and wolves. The Starks have caused Dorne nothing but grief.”

Olyvar has heard the stories too, seemingly too fantastical to be believed. An eternal winter, the dead walking amongst the living, a night borne on the shoulders of some creature of night—whispers had spread all the way to Essos, dogging him nearly as much as the tales of spilled blood and green fire in King’s Landing, an exiled queen’s thirst for revenge, and the sweet peal of dragonsong, centuries extinct and made real once again (certainly better than the tales of a Mountain crushing a Viper, bone and blood and brain splattered over dented armor, people screaming, screaming, screaming). No, these are the stories he had heard from his childhood, the stories he had traced across the continents...and all of them seem to be coming true.

 _But the price they demand,_ he thinks, sitting back in his chair. _It has been paid and paid and paid. With Elia’s blood and Oberyn’s and Doran’s...for justice, for vengeance, for...for…_

“Do you think it would be wiser to stand with Cersei Lannister?” He nods at his niece. “You have been in Westeros. I have not.” Sarella snorts.

“I am not stupid, Uncle,” she retorts. She gestures to his tunic. “You think I don’t know that it was her letter you were doing your best to shred?”

“House Martell has a troubled history with the Lannisters,” Olyvar says, though his light tone is tinged with the barest hue of anger. 

“And Dorne is the only kingdom to ever withstand a dragon however. It’s been done once.”

Olyvar looks across the table at his niece--the stubborn set of her jaw, the dancing black eyes...but there is grief there too, for the sisters and father and uncle she lost. He knows. It eats at him too, the grief. The loss. And even more strongly, the indignation—against the Lannisters, against the Targaryens, against the Starks, against every family that has drenched their cloaks in the blood of the Martells to play their games in love and war. Ellaria, he supposes, believed that vengeance was enough to carry her through, to ride on the back of a dragon and burn away every force that ever wronged the people she loved.

Vengeance, Olyvar thinks, is a hunter. Briefly satiated and then ravenous for more. It brings black death and gore to all it touches.

He rises to his feet then, suddenly unable to be confined like _this_. “It has. I’m glad you remember your history. But that’s what it is—history. And if we make the same mistakes as the others, that’s what we will be. And we cannot help Dorne if we are dead.”

Sarella crosses her arms. “Is that why you came back, Uncle? To help Dorne? After running all these years?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, even if he has to forcefully swallow back a heated denial. He knows that it is circumspect—but it is also inevitable. With Elia and Oberyn and Doran and Trystane gone, it only made sense that he would be drawn home. How could he stay away any longer, even after running all those years ago, from duty and responsibility and the game of politics that had to be played, even as Elia’s murder hung on the family like a pall? 

And it's not like Doran hadn't _known_.

The letter settled within his tunic burns.

Olyvar nods towards the door. “Walk with me, niece. If you want to accuse me of being power hungry, we can at least have that talk under the stars.”

Sarella scoffs. “Winter is here and it is nighttime. You want me to freeze my bloody tits off after riding all day?”

“You have a cloak.” He tilts his head at her. “To protect your...womanly assets.”

The look he earns for that comment would quell any other man but he only shrugs. Sarella rolls her eyes at him—but she does eventually stand and grab the cloak and soon they are outside, silently strolling along the winding labyrinth of walkways and bridges that wind their ways around the dozens of towers that make up the Old Palace. Torches blaze along their path, lighting the earth-hued towers in a red-gold light. Overhead, the wintery blue-black expanse of the sky is laden with constellations and shooting stars and Olyvar can see, peeking in and out between towers, the swollen mass of black clouds sitting low on the northern horizon. He guesses a storm will arrive before morning.

When the horizon appears once again during their silent walk, Olyvar nods towards it. “You arrived just in time.” Sarella follows his gaze and her lips press into a thin line.

“This is nothing, if the stories from the North are anything to go by,” she murmurs, but gives him a hard look nonetheless. “You will not distract me with talk about the weather, I hope you realize.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Olyvar responds, keeping his hands folded in his cloak. It _was_ bitingly cold, Sarella had been right about that. Olyvar had not known a winter in Dorne to be this frigid, had not truly believed that temperatures in Dorne could plummet to such levels. Of course, there was rumor of a time when winter lasted for generations, reaching all the way down from the Land of Always Winter and across the sea to Essos, of darkness and cold and death. 

Sarella is watching him out of the corner of her eye. He says, “I wanted to come home when your father was killed. Doran advised against it. I wish I had ignored him, if I had known the rage in Ellaria’s heart would make her foolhardy.” He sees Sarella open her mouth to defend her sisters’ mother but he holds up a hand to stop her. “You don’t understand. It was a gamble that Oberyn and Doran took, sending your father to the wedding feast. They’ve wanted vengeance for Elia and her children for years now and it was the perfect opportunity to pay a debt owed against the family. Unfortunately, it was a gamble with a double-edged sword. And here I stand because of it.”

They walk on in silence for a few moments. Olyvar thinks about Doran’s letters to him, reaching him unmolested even through their great travels across the expanses of Essos. He thinks too of the Targaryen words, fire and blood, and perhaps how fitting it was that the Martells’ and Dorne’s destinies lay intertwined with that of the dragons. The dragons promised revenge and the serpents swore never to break. Together, the families could prove to be an unstoppable force. Perhaps that too is what Ellaria saw in her grief and her anger.

But Olyvar cannot help but curse her for her recklessness, for plunging herself and Dorne into the abyss of war as swiftly as she had buried a dagger deep in Doran’s heart. He had heard the story from the maester, but had always known the other side of it, had known the gamble and the plot, shared by an older brother to his estranged sibling, leagues and leagues away.

Doran had always been so cautious, so prepared. And not for the first time, Olyvar wonders if Doran had known the likely outcome of the risk.

 _Of course he did_ , he thinks as they descend a staircase into a sunken garden. He thinks of the letters littering his bedchamber, from the Westerosi queens...and from his brother. _He would not have told you all of this if he thought that he and Oberyn would survive in every scenario in his head._

Sarella interrupts his thoughts. “Was it always to destroy the Lannisters? Is that what you’re here for—to finish what my father started?”

Olyvar does not meet her gaze. Instead, he turns a thoughtful eye towards the soaring dappled trees of the garden, the bright red flowers that usually grew from the rough gray bark long since vanished with the winds of autumn. The canopy they provide nearly blocks out the stars and provides a natural insulation to the garden itself, protecting it from the frost that he has seen starting to accumulated on red-tiled roofs and the winding paths of the Old Palace. “I am not your father.”

“You’re not Doran either.”

“That is true,” he admits with a laugh, thinking that Doran would have been less than approving of his dagger-throwing stunt earlier. He slows to a stop and Sarella does the same next to him, although the clench of her jaw clearly tells Olyvar that she none too pleased at having to stop walking in the chill of the winter night air. “But Elia was my sister too. And now the Lannisters have killed my brother. And his beloved has killed my other brother. And the krakens have killed my nieces and quite possibly Ellaria too. So where does that leave Dorne? Do we keep throwing Dornish blood to the northern families until our blood soaks the rest of Westeros?”

“So you want to sue for peace with the Targaryen queen.”

“Do I?” Olyvar asks, turning to face Sarella. And for the first time, the movement of the long drape of his tunic reveals the weight as his side, the sword belt hidden beneath the rich golden and ochre fabrics, a golden hilt catching the light of the torches that surround them. He sees Sarella’s gaze dart down, her eyes widening slightly in recognition. Olyvar grimaces. “What do you think, niece?”

No, he will never have Oberyn’s temper. He will never have Doran’s patience. But he _is_ a Martell. And the words of their House are burned into his blood.

Unbowed. Unbent. 

“What is your plan, Uncle?” 

Olyvar brushes his fingers across the hilt of the scimitar—the _Viper’s_ scimitar—and smiles. Genuinely smiles.

“First, we find out what the Lannister queen has done with Ellaria.”

 _Unbroken_.

“After that...the Starks and the Targaryens owe us a debt. I intend to see it paid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Dorne - one of the greater mysteries and fusterclucks of the television adaptation. One of the things that I found absolutely riveting about Dorne and the Martells in the books was their political cunning and their ability to play the long game. It was, unfortunately, a plot that had to be left by the wayside after cutting several major important characters related to it, and the lack of it seemed to cripple the Dornish storyline after Oberyn’s death. But even in the show and as mentioned by Olyvar and Sarella in this chapter, House Martell has troubled, intriguing history with the Targaryens and Starks that is too good to ignore. They can be an ally - but an ally that will definitely want some scales balanced in the end.
> 
> Also that throwaway line about “the new Prince of Dorne pledges his support” drove me bonkers. There was never any explanation given to where this new Prince of Dorne came from in the last couple of episodes. Screen Rant’s interview with Tony Osmond, the actor portraying this new Martell, gave some really lovely headcanon about this mysterious character, including the idea that he was a younger brother to Doran and Oberyn. If you have the chance, I’d recommend checking it out, especially since I’m using that interview as a base for this character. 
> 
> Anyway, this is a shorter POV chapter to simply set up House Martell's stake in the game. The next chapter - The Little Bird - has the Starks receive some disturbing news from the capital (and, unsurprisingly, no one is happy about it).


	12. The Little Bird

Sansa finds Howland Reed in the godswood.

He stands in front of the heart tree, hands clasped behind his back as he stares up at the carved weeping face in the bark. She has never met the man before, knows him only by reputation and the stories Eddard Stark told them when they were all children—stories of knights and battles and ladies waiting for their beloved ones to return home, stories Sansa had once adored as much as her lemon cakes and songs of chivalry. Even now, she shies away from the memory of her own naivete and silliness.

She has not been back to the godswood since she, Arya, and Bran had confronted Jon regarding his alliance with the Targaryen queen (she bristles at the thought, remembering his pleading defiance, her own scoffing anger, and then Bran’s words about Jon’s parents, rifts and chasms and fire and ice). A fresh fall of snow coats the ground, broken only by the footprints of the man in front of her. Against the expanse of white snow and the spiderwebbed sprawl of black branches and bark, the crimson leaves that drip like blood from the heart tree are nearly obscene in their vibrancy.

She stops a few yards away from the man, the drifts of snow nearly coming halfway up to her knees. It is strange how hard the winter storms blew in so soon and so hard after the Reeds’ arrival almost two days ago, gales of ice and snow bringing a sort of pure reprieve to the reconstruction still taking place about Winterfell’s grounds. The Reeds had made themselves scarce in that time—Meera watching over Bran (possibly with the intent to yell at him once he awoke) and Howland, begging her pardons and admitting his bones in the winter were not what they used to be, had vanished into the guest chambers.

Now she finds him standing in the midst of the godswood, dressed only in a long tunic, breeches, and a light cloak, and Sansa suspects that his original excuse was a lie. The question is why he lied in the first place.

She stays silent for a moment longer before saying, “Lord Reed.”

He doesn’t start—even though the sounds of her approach had been all but swallowed by the snow—but turns his head slightly in her direction. She can see the barest of smiles grace his face, a warmth that she instinctively doesn’t trust. “My lady.” A pause. “I feel as though I have disrespected the hospitality you have shown us.”

 _And more_ , Sansa thinks. Her words are careful, devoid of emotion. “Winter is not kind to everyone.”

“No. No, it’s not.” He looks back at the heart tree then but not before Sansa sees the regret and sadness erase the smile from his face. “In all those years, your father kept an open invitation for me to visit. In those first few years after the rebellion, it was...difficult to refuse. There was so much to say and so much left unspoken. But as the years went on, it became easier and easier until it became something of a joke between us. And now…” 

And now.

Very few people from that generation are left, Sansa knows, their blood long since having drenched the earth: in wars and battles, in birthing beds and executions. For that brief summer of King Robert’s reign, there had been peace for all of them. And then came Littlefinger’s machinations that plunged the entire realm into war, followed by the rise of the dead and the arrival of a Targaryen, breathing both ice and fire across the land.

Sansa presses her lips into a firm line.

“You were a dear friend of my father’s,” she says. “I will not turn away someone simply because they cannot abide the cold.”

A silence falls between them and Sansa wonders if the man, so long removed from court and the politics of the realm, would even have noticed the double-edge to her words. The North had bled and bled and bled these past few years—her patience with men who hid away in their keeps and castles until the worst had passed by is now nonexistent. It does not matter that Howland Reed had once fought alongside Ned Stark—once had not saved her father from Ilyn Payne’s sword. Once had not saved Robb and Mother at a now infamous wedding. Once had not saved Rickon from the wiles of a cruel man. And once had not been during Winterfell’s most desperate hour of need, against all the hordes of night and darkness and the very depths of winter.

She watches the man in front of her, his back still turned to her. The crannogmen are not a formidable force but there is a part of Sansa—the part of her that is completely and utterly the blood of House Tully—that wishes that duty for some men extended beyond a few token words. What is friendship and loyalty if it means silence?

Finally, Howland Reed turns towards her with a sigh. He is a handsome, slight man, of an age with her father, sandy brown hair riddled with silver. She sees nothing of Meera in his features, supposes perhaps that the son who died in the far reaches beyond the Wall had favored him more. There is no anger or irritation in his eyes from her words spoken. No, he looks...resigned?

“I deserve that,” he says. He meets her gaze evenly. “But I swore not to involve myself in the politics of war years and years ago.”

“I was not aware that one could pick and choose which battles to fight when their lord calls for aid,” Sansa replies dryly. “Jon is...the Warden of the North.” The pause is involuntary. _Jon could be ruler of the Seven Kingdoms_. “Our request was not in jest.”

Howland nods. “That I know. Jojen spoke of it often, the coming war of winter.” He peers at her curiously now. “We arrived to see Winterfell recovering from that battle. You beat back the forces of night easily, it seems.”

“Not easily.” She thinks of Theon’s corpse of the funeral pyre and even though she was surrounded by dozens and dozens of the dead, men and women she had known, she only saw him—the man who had betrayed her, the man who had rescued her. Even now, weeks later, she feels her heart constrict in grief. But she quickly moves on, trying to shove those memories to the far corner of her mind. _Grieve when this is over, truly over_. “The North fought and we won that war. But now we fight one last war.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that too.” There is a peculiar expression on his face. She cannot place it. “Daenerys Targaryen, coming from the east like her ancestor to claim her throne on the back of a dragon. Is she the one who slew the one who brought winter?”

Sansa hesitates, wondering when and how stories about her sister will spread (the little girl, scruffy and with ruined needlepoint, unrecognizable in the lady assassin with cool and calculating eyes, friendlier with death than any living creature). The men who had fought at Winterfell had taken the tales south with them, no doubt proudly telling anyone they came across how one of their own had slain the Night King. Whether anyone south would believe the tales was anyone’s guess, though she assumes that rumors of the horrors haunting the north will warp and twist into something legendary.

“She was not,” she responds coolly after a moment.

“She has dragons, I’ve heard.”

_Without her, we don’t stand a chance._

And yet...

“Surprisingly, they don’t make her all-powerful.” She cannot hide the dismissive tone in her voice. Howland is quiet for a moment, clearly having noticed.

Then, he says, quietly and thoughtfully, “You have no love for this queen.”

Sansa lifts her chin in defiance. Her time spent with Cersei has left her with little illusions about what certain people did when they tasted power, and her time under Littlefinger’s tutelage taught her what happens when ambition is gifted to those who do not have power and the lengths they go to to secure it. Destruction. Death. Power and ambition and _ruin_.

_Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before._

In Daenerys, she sees the ghosts of Cersei and Littlefinger and even hints of Ramsay, and that terrifies her.

This is a woman who would have been born into the most powerful dynasty in Westeros, only to have the power and the legacy ripped away before she had ever taken her first breath. Sansa does not— _cannot—_ trust her. Not with her family, not with the North. Even if Jon believes her to be too suspicious, Sansa thinks he hasn’t been suspicious enough _(there had once been rumors of a great commander on the Wall, where had that man gone when the fires brought him back to life, too impulsive, too yielding…_ ). There is always a price to be paid, no matter how benevolent Jon has tried to make the dragon queen out to be, a price too dear and too important to be haggled away.

The North. Their legacy. Their _home_.

It is a price that Jon cannot see. It is a price that Sansa refuses to pay.

Never again.

“I am grateful that she _helped_ protect the North from darkness,” she says. It is the most diplomatic answer she can give. “But I cannot in good faith put all my trust in a woman whose family nearly destroyed mine.”

“I know I give you little cause to trust me, a stranger who was once close friends with your father,” Howland replies, “but you will have to lie better than that. That cannot be the truth.”

Sansa narrows her eyes, a spark of something hot igniting in her at his presumptuousness. “Lord Reed, why are you _here_?”

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. He doesn’t look apologetic. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to anger you. It’s just that...I know Targaryens and Starks have a troubled history with one another. But those times have come and gone. Do you truly hold a grudge against this new queen for the actions of her father and her brother? These people were dead long before you were born.”

She stares at him. “Do you know what the Targaryen words are, Lord Reed?”

He is silent for a beat. Then, “Fire and blood.”

“Fire and blood,” Sansa repeats. “Her brother and her father may be dead but those words are very much alive. And those words are why I cannot trust this queen. The North is my _home_ , Lord Reed. It has suffered enough. It will not break under the rule of a dragon.”

She nods her head at him shortly before starting to head towards the entrance of the godswood.

She does not get very far before she hears approaching footsteps ahead of her. She stops, peering through the thicket of black trees to see a young slim woman hastily making her way through the snowdrifts towards her. It takes her an additional moment to recognize the figure as Meera Reed. There is an expression on her face that immediately makes Sansa’s heart skip.

Bran.

“What’s wrong?” she calls before the girl have even made it to the clearing. She hears the worry threaded through her voice, as memories of years ago jolt her and make her blood run cold.

A fall. Her mother’s near catatonic worry. _Bran, please wake up..._

But Meera’s response—“Bran’s awake”—nearly settles her fears...except the strange expression on Meera’s face does not change. Sansa looks at her, knowing the question is clearly on her face. Meera grimaces. “It’s...you have to see.” She looks beyond Sansa, her brow furrowed. “You both have to see.”

Sansa realizes that Howland is just behind her, having silently approached during her initial consternation. She senses his nod, wonders what Meera means that he has to see as well. Howland Reed knows Bran no better than he knows Sansa.

And yet he follows her as she winds her way out of the godswood and into the halls of the castle, Meera trailing silently behind. There is something fluttering in her heart, some uncertain something, as she remembers the look on Bran’s face before he collapsed—and the roar in her own head, the pain, the howling wolves, the memory of Lady, and the darkness going down and down and down...her Father’s voice... _winter is coming and the lone wolf dies but the pack survives…_

She swings open the door to Bran’s room.

He is sitting up in the bed. Samwell Tarly is there as well and he looks as wide-eyed as she feels. Both young men turn to look at her but she only has eyes for little brother. And the look on his face—it’s not the dispassionate, expressionless gaze of the Raven...no, it’s...it’s…

“Bran?” she whispers, suddenly afraid of the answer. “Bran, are you...?”

The smile that he gives her is shy, troubled, a little distracted—but he _smiles_.

And Sansa is undone.

Before she realizes what she has done, she is on the bed, her arms thrown around her little brother, an echo of the same greeting she gave him when he first returned home with Meera, when she believed he was still the little boy she had left in Winterfell all those years ago, not some all-knowing eldritch entity with the blank stare and monotonous voice. Unlike before, she feels Bran’s arms around her in a half-embarrassed hug, and she struggles not to cry, not with all of these people in the room.

“Bran, gods..." she murmurs into his hair, thinking how far they’ve come since that day she left Winterfell as a stupid little girl. She pulls away slightly, sees Bran’s eyes dart to Meera and a faint blush cross his cheeks. She wants to sob at the display of emotion, the display of normalcy from him. Her voice is thick with unshed tears when she speaks again. “How? How is this possible?”

_It’s difficult to explain._

Bran worries at his lower lip, glancing again at Meera and then at Sam. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I remember a million voices screaming. And fire.” He hesitates again, his gaze suddenly far away as if remembering something. Sansa clutches his hand to anchor him. _Please don’t go_. “Something has happened in King’s Landing. Something bad.”

“Can’t you see?” she asks but even as the words leave her lips, she knows...she _knows_. And when Bran shakes his head, Sansa feels both a rush of relief and a strange sense of loss flare up in her heart, leaving her almost lightheaded. She does not want this destiny for her little brother, does not want him to be crushed by this strange power. To see his face like this, unguarded and so young in its frustration, makes her want to praise the gods she had abandoned as useless for giving her back her little brother.

But she also knows the magnitude of the advantage that they have lost. And Bran’s words do nothing except create a chill in her heart at the idea that they aren’t seeing something important, something to do with the capital, with Arya and Jon.

“We haven’t heard anything from the capital,” Sam says quietly, looking askance at Sansa. “And without Bran’s ability to...um...see..."

“Your greensight is gone?”

Everyone’s attention swivels to the man still standing near the door. He, however, only looks at Bran, his brows drawn over a thoughtful frown. Bran, for his part, stares at Howland Reed as if he’s seen a ghost. Sansa watches as a flash of pain and realization spasms over his face, as if reeling from a physical blow. She touches his arm. “Bran?”

“ _You_ ,” the young man breathes. “I _know_ you. I remember...I saw you.”

Howland Reed smiles as if completely unfazed by Bran’s startled declaration and Sansa has never seen a sadder thing in her life.

She decides then, leveling a gaze at Sam and the Reed girl. “May we have a moment?” Her voice is stern, leaving no room for argument. That does not stop Meera from frowning and opening her mouth to do that very thing but Sam shakes his head at her, making a none-too-subtle gesture towards the door. It is enough: Meera scowls at all of them—especially at Bran—and storms out of the room, followed by Sam as he murmurs his apologies and says something about checking in with Gilly.

Bran is still staring at Howland, who has not moved from his position near the door. Sansa looks from her brother to her father’s friend, sensing something inevitable growing in the air.

“I swore to your father that I would never tell anyone what we discovered. I have kept my word for over twenty years,” Howland murmurs. He shakes his head. “And yet it seems as if the truth is already known here in Winterfell. I should have learned long ago never to underestimate the power of a greenseer.”

Bran shakes his head, as if trying to physically clear the cobwebs from his thoughts. “I don’t remember...there is so much that isn’t...” He looks frustrated. “I remember that though. Because that was _before_...I remember seeing you and Father. At the Tower of Joy.”

The Tower of Joy. Sansa’s mind races. Yes, this is what Bran told her and Arya all of those weeks ago, where she too had sworn to keep a promise, a secret too big and too important to remain hidden (she is not sure if she regrets it, is not sure if her gamble with this secret will pay off, but she wonders...she wonders...). But has she heard the story elsewhere? A fight between northmen and two kingsmen—Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Gerold Hightower, the White Bull...

Yes...yes, she knows this story. How her father had slayed the greatest knight who ever lived in single combat...and, as she learned from Bran, found his sister bleeding to death on her birthing bed. Bran had not mentioned anything else. Lifetimes ago, Sansa would have thought the whole thing a beautiful and tragic romance—the silver prince and the wolf maid, defying everything to be together, slain leagues apart, by a spurned lord and by the son she brought into the world respectfully.

Now Sansa can only see the foolish selfishness in all of it.

“You were there that day,” she says quietly, more as a soft confirmation than an accusation. Howland Reed has kept this secret with him for longer than she has been alive. Sansa had barely been able to hold onto it for a day. It is a secret that could and still can break the realm, a kernel of power in the right hands. There is no need to play this game of questions with him. This man—this friend— had been straight and true since that battle ages and ages ago.

Howland nods. “Indeed I was.”

A haunted expression crosses Bran’s face. He seems to be mentally wrestling with something, and Sansa can only guess—

She stops.

 _He was there,_ she thinks again, eyes widening.

He was _there_ and it means he is now the only person left alive who was present for Jon’s birth.

Truly, she has been wondering how they would convince the rest of the realm of Jon’s parentage. After all, the maester’s diary only spoke of the annulment of Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage, and the secret wedding between Rhaegar and Lyanna. It never spoke of the child born of the union. And the men who had been guarding the Tower of Joy were dead. The men who had come with Ned Stark to rescue his sister were also dead...except for this one standing before her now. A living key to the past.

But it’s as if Howland can read her thoughts because he is already shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Bran’s face. “Do not misunderstand. I have not come here to pledge my support to any claim for the crown. Not for the king’s daughter nor for the prince’s son.” He glances at Sansa with a grimace. “I told you—I swore many years ago not involve myself in the politics of war anymore. I have seen even the best of intentions sour and the realm bled for it. I have lost dear friends because of the ambitions of men. Do not ask me to do it again in my old age.”

“We won’t,” Bran says immediately. Sansa gives him a startled look.

“ _Bran_.”

“We won’t,” he says again, more firmly. He looks stricken. “I told you—something has happened in the capital. I can’t see it now but I remember it—people were screaming. There was fire. And smoke. The capital was _burning_. And I think...I think..." He trails off, his hand clenching the blankets at his lap. “I think Daenerys has done something horrible. Arya and Jon...they’re in danger. Something has gone _wrong_ , Sansa. You felt it, didn’t you? Before?”

Wolves howling, a screaming pain in her head…

 _Winter is coming_.

A warning.

A _warning_.

Sansa looks to the side, her mind already churning. Their ravens to the capital are unanswered. The capital itself is silent and, if Bran is correct, burning and in no state _to_ send an answer. They are weeks and weeks away from helping Arya and Jon—the march from Winterfell to King’s Landing too far to reach quickly on anything except a dragon. A large portion of their men have marched south with Daenerys’s troops. The Iron Islands are too far west to do any good. The Vale itself is still recovering from their assistance in the battle against the Night King’s army. The riverlands and the Reach will take years and years to recover from the wars (and gods know she doesn’t want to deal with her uncle at the moment), and there is no one in the westerlands she knows for certain she can trust.

She hesitates at the thought of Storm’s End and Sunspear. Gendry is indebted to Daenerys for his legitimization...but Sansa has seen the way he looks at her little sister. Would he defy the dragon queen for Arya? Can she ask that of him? The truth is, she doesn’t know enough about the blacksmith-turned-lord to make that decision. And the person who knows him well is the person whose safety she is struggling to find out about.

She knows little to less about the new prince of Dorne, had only vaguely been aware that Oberyn and Doran even _had_ a younger brother. Dorne has declared for Daenerys, yes, but Dorne has always been a mystery and a gamble.

“Before you collapsed,” Sansa says slowly, taking Bran’s hands in hers, “you said Jon’s name. What else did you see?”

_I need to know, little brother. I need to know how to protect us._

Bran looks at Sansa, then at Howland Reed. When he speaks, it’s almost as if he were addressing a question raised by the crannogman.

“Winter.” He frowns. “It’s mostly just impressions now—I can’t see the details. But there was fire and ice. Dragons and winter. I dreamt that...” He trails off, his expression troubled.

This is less than helpful. She decides. “We need to contact Sunspear and Storm’s End. Even if the ravens aren’t making it to King’s Landing, perhaps someone from the capital has traveled south and brought news of what happened there.” She pauses, as a terrifying thought dawns on her. “The capital is burning, you said. What color were the flames?”

She braces herself against the memories of Stannis Baratheon’s attack on King’s Landing years ago—memories of the Blackwater aflame, men screaming in the shrill animal-like terror of the truly damned while women sang in thin, terrified voices, and Cersei looming like a shadow, promising death and mercy in a wine-laden voice. Fear and darkness and fire.

Green fire.

Bran responds softly, almost reluctantly, “It was dragonfire.”

Sansa closes her eyes.

Arya. Jon. _Gods_.

“You said you can’t see it now,” she presses urgently. “What does that mean? What do you remember?”

“I don’t _know_ ,”Bran bursts out, slamming a first onto his legs as his gaze finally snaps onto Sansa. She sees in his eyes anger and frustration and...fear? “I don’t remember _anything_ , Sansa. Or at least I think I don’t. It’s like I’m looking at everything through fog. Everything since I came south of the Wall—it doesn’t make any sense. I’m trying to make myself understand any of it but the power of the Three-Eyed Raven...I can feel that it’s there but I can’t reach it. He told me…”

His mouth abruptly snaps shut, a flush burning across his cheeks. Sansa gives him a quizzical look.

“What? Who told you?”

Bran looks away. “No one.”

“ _Bran_.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out, Sansa.” He sounds tired now, sinking back into bed, hollow-eyed and wan. “I just...I need to figure it out.”

A part of her wants to push, wants him to trust her, to tell her what he saw or what he believed he saw. But she bites it back with a sigh. No. No, there are now more urgent matters to attend to. Sansa doesn’t know what the capital burning with dragonfire means but she has a good idea. And despite her dislike and mistrust of the dragon queen, despite the fact that she loathes the other woman’s arrogance and assumptions of her so-called destiny, Sansa does not want her downfall to be at the price of Arya and Jon’s lives.

She gives Bran’s hand one more squeeze before rising. “You should rest, Bran. I will have Sam send letters to Gendry and the prince of Dorne.” And to the wildlings that have gone north, people loyal to Jon and subsequently the North. The lords of the Vale would side with them, once they recovered. The riverlords as well. Allies against the dragon queen (and her brother? No...no, Jon would never side against his family, he is a good man, a just man...he wouldn’t stand aside if...if...)

_Fight every battle everywhere always in your mind.  
_

_Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend, every possible series of events is happening all at once.  
_

_Live that way and nothing will surprise you.  
_

Doubt trickles through her mind.

Secrets are power.

Keeping her face expressionless, Sansa nods at Howland Reed as she exits the room, though she does not move away from the door once she closes it behind her. She can hear silence just beyond in Bran’s chambers, her fingers quietly brushing against the dark heavy wood. She will admit it to no one—there is no one she trusts to reveal her feelings to, not Jon, not Bran, not Arya—but there is fear fluttering in her heart. Fear of the unknown. Fear of more war. Fear of losing control.

No, she has to be smarter. She has to be faster. She has to be more ruthless than Daenerys.

Inside the room, she hears Bran ask Howland, “You were there when my Aunt Lyanna died. Did you...did you know Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“By reputation only,” comes the answer. “He was...a warrior. Honorable. Dutiful. And...a good man.”

A good man.

_What if there’s someone else? Someone better?_

Yes, secrets are power.

And a whispered secret can turn into a storm.

Sansa lets out a shaky breath she did not even know she had been holding. Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need to get BranBot 2.0 back online. 404 Error File Not Found Bran is not very helpful.
> 
> Next chapter: The Wildling. And, uh, ice spiders.


	13. The Wildling

They find half of the woman’s body in the morning.

Owen Leatherclaw is the one who alerts Tormund to it, his craggy face scarred and bleeding and etched with a permanent scowl. Tormund has known the other man for years, familiar with his sheer stubborn habit of staying alive no matter the circumstances he finds himself in. It was never a surprise when he found himself marching along with the man after the wildlings’ attack on the Wall a few years ago or fighting alongside him when the dead attacked Winterfell. The man has seen war and the impossible, as much as Tormund has.

And yet there is something haunted in Owen’s expression when he tells Tormund of the find, his voice low, his jaw clenching and unclenching in anxiety.

“She may have been trying to leave, make it on her own out there,” Owen mutters as they trudge through the great snow drifts that have surrounded their encampment. Snowflakes drift into Tormund’s eyes and beard—the snowstorm, threatening to soon become a full-on blizzard, has not let up. It is nothing he is not used to—there were storms north of the Wall that seemed to last eons—but he cannot untangle the knot that his stomach has twisted into, the itch of knowledge in the back of his mind that this is an unnatural storm.

It does not help that it began the moment…

The moment...

 _No, not now_. Tormund brushes the memory, the _nightmare_ , away. “Who found her?”

“One of the scouts.” Owen glances behind him at the dark blotches of freefolk and northerners milling through the snow. “Boy almost couldn’t talk, he was pissing himself so badly.” Under his breath, the man adds, “Don’t blame the lad, honestly.”

A few yards away, a handful of other men are gathered around something dark and crumpled and half-covered with snow, and even from his vantage point, Tormund can smell the cloying stench of death and blood. It is a scent he thought, especially after Winterfell, that he had gotten used to. He grimaces against it, ignoring the wrongness of the storm and the churning in his gut and the tiny stabs of _knowing_ in the back of his mind. Instead he shoulders his way into the cluster of men with a grunt, something icy crawling down his back as he looks down at the woman.

From her ribs down, there is absolutely nothing—it looks as though the woman has literally been torn in half. Her innards, black and frozen, trail from the ragged edge of her torso, tangled around the exposed and shattered remnants of her lower spine. A few ribs jut up through the pale skin, dagger sharp, and now only faintly red with blood and viscera and crusted with ice. Globs of blood, growing darker and colder with each passing minute, has congealed beneath her remains, seeping into the snow. The woman’s face, dark eyes wide and staring, is a rictus of pain and terror, her jaw yawning in a silent, eternal scream.

What makes nausea rise into Tormund’s throat is what lays clasped in the woman’s hand, her finger half-unfurled in death: she is holding another hand. 

A smaller hand.

A child’s hand.

“That makes her the sixth,” one of the men in the group—a former crow—says under his breath, only echoing the mutterings that Tormund hears around him. “Ever since the bloody Wall—”

Tormund presses his lips into a bloodless line, feeling the edges of something sharp and bitter constrict in his heart, the air threatening to stay jammed in his chest. He manages to spit out, “Aye, and there’s nothing more to be done for her.” The woman’s eyes seem to follow him as he turns his back, her dead scream already seared into his mind. Just like the others. “Burn her.”

The men seem to hesitate and one of them pipes up, “Should we at least try to find...?”

 _What do you bastards think we’ll find,_ Tormund thinks furiously. “Look at her. You think we’re going to find the child shitting and giggling somewhere in this fucking snowstorm?” He shakes his head as the men look at one another in stricken silence. “No, we have to keep moving south. That’s the only chance we’ve got. Make sure we don’t have any more people trying to make it out on their own. If the cold doesn’t kill them…” 

He leaves the thought hanging and begins to stomp away through the snowdrifts and back towards the blotted crowd of wildlings and crows (are they still crows? He remembers _the Wall crashing down and down, smashing the towers and the walkways and the keeps of Castle Black in apocalyptic thunder, the world splintering into ice and screams and horror no he can’t think of this no not now_ ). He rubs a hand at his face, clearing it of the snowflakes that continue to coat his beard—gods, he didn’t think he’d be doing this shit. 

Again.

Owen appears at his side a moment later. “You really think it’ll be safer south?”

Tormund shrugs. “It helped in the past. The dead never went any farther than Winterfell.”

Owen falls silent and Tormund already knows what he’s thinking: _the dead are gone_.

So what is hunting them?

In the scant number of days since the Wall fell ( _falling and falling, death and snow and roaring_ ), there have been rumors spreading amongst the freefolk and the kneelers and the crows who were not crushed to death by the falling broken blocks of ice that there is something moving through the shadows of night that they cannot see. When the sun finally sinks below the horizon--hidden as it was throughout the day behind bloated gray clouds--the night that descends is almost darker than anything Tormund has known. He tries not to think of that night in Winterfell, tries not to see the similarities.

But in the dark, in the sheer overwhelming blackness beyond the fires of their camps, within the blowing gusts of snow and ice, people are claiming to see shapes moving and skittering through the storm. Phantom images, too large and too fast to be believable. Jon's direwolf has vanished to gods know where, perhaps one of the many bodies crushed beneath the Wall. Tormund has not seen them himself, is usually not alerted to the presence of anything until morning.

And then of course there are the bodies.

Shortly after they crawled away from the ruins of Castle Black, dazed and battered and broken, they had stumbled across the first body—a young man who had clearly run as far as he had been able to, the world ending on his heels. He was dressed in the heavy furs of a wildling, his body half-covered in ice shards and snow. They never found his head.

Then came the body of a crow—or at least what remained of his armless, headless torso, his chest punctured with holes big enough to shove a child’s arm through. After that, the gruesome discoveries of another crow and a young wildling couple—more gouged severed limbs and tattered entrails than whole bodies—left the entire wandering crowd, shivering and bruised and terrified, on edge, especially as they moved farther and farther south. Those who survived Winterfell and Last Hearth and the siege by the dead of all the strongholds in the North began nervously whispering about the return of living corpses, blue eyes, and soft gray hands wrapping around warm throats.

Tormund frowns as they forge their way through the snowdrifts back towards the encampment. The past few years makes him feel as if he is living in one of those stories told by the old wildling women with the sagging teats and wicked tongues or the boisterous white-bearded men who can barely remember the name of their fifth (or is that sixth?) son. Tormund hasn’t heard any of those stories worth a damn in more years than he cares to remember, save for those told by Mance in those months venturing south towards safety and life. He has seen enough of the reality to doubt that they were ever really tall tales or legends to begin with.

“Think there might be anything to the rumors?” Owen suddenly asks, breaking the windy silence. Tormund can only grunt in response at first. Then, thinking better of it, he holds out a hand to halt Owen’s progress and glances back at the small group of men and the now smoking corpse of the nameless woman who had clearly believed her chances of fleeing south where better on her own.

“I think the people believe in them,” Tormund replies with a sigh. “And after the past few years, can’t really blame them. They’re just spooked because of what happened at Winterfell.”

“Winterfell..." Owen gives Tormund a hard and faintly incredulous look that he does his best to ignore. “You think they’re spooked because of _Winterfell_? Tormund, we just saw the whole fucking Wall come down like it was made of child’s toys. You said it took an undead dragon to bring Eastwatch down. And even then, all it did, last I heard, was blow a bloody big hole at the end. Are we going to talk about what is stronger than a dragon to bring down the whole damned thing this time?”

_Mammoth blocks of ice and screaming and thunder and the entire world ending before his eyes, an ache in his chest, needles of ice cutting his face, his entire vision white and blue and black and red, his voice booming, run run run run…_

Faint stabs of panic. His breath strangled in his throat.

“No,” Tormund replies shortly, gruffly. “No, we’re not.” And he walks away from Owen, the storm winds biting into his face with a chill that he thinks isn’t just from the dropping temperatures.

Later that night, the remaining crows and a few young wildlings who believe themselves to be seasoned warriors after one night of fighting the dead start setting up a perimeter of sentries around the camp. Torches blaze red-gold in the darkening blue-black night, flickering against the winter storm that still refuses to abate. Fortunately, their entire camp is made of northern kneelers and wildlings who braved stronger blizzards than this—the cold certainly isn’t the main factor of their nervousness as they huddle around campfires. Tormund passes more than a few knots of people that keep casting wary looks out towards the darkness just beyond the bulk of the camp, as the sounds of muted chatter and crackling game barely belie the undercurrent of anxiety that runs like a dagger through many of them.

He talks with a few of the sentries—even the crows, who seem more resigned to this nonsense than the freefolk—and works his way around the perimeter. The younger sentries, green boys with red cheeks, seem eager to stand watch against the darkness and the cold. He approaches one of them now—a fresh-faced boy who can barely be more than four-and-ten—and claps him on the shoulder. The boy bears it with a wince and a grin that is more bravado than anything else. 

“First night?” Tormund asks gamely. The boy shrugs.

“I tried last night but they said we didn’t need no more help.” He squints past Tormund into the darkness. “I don’t know. Think we need all the help we can get. I heard they found another person torn apart. My cousin says its demons, come back to kill all of us for destroying their king.”

Tormund huffs out a laugh, with amusement he doesn’t feel. Somewhere north of them is ruins. Somewhere between them and the ruins and what he can only assume is safety is something unknown. Something dangerous. “Your cousin says that, eh? Your cousin fought at Winterfell?”

The boy flushes. “We went to Barrowton. We never saw no battle but we would have been fighting if we did.” He juts his chin out and Tormund can see the flint in his eyes. “Me and my little sister and my cousin—we came from Hardhome.”

Hardhome. Another nightmare ( _but one he can bear_ ). How many of those corpses fell at the Starks’ stronghold? How many friends, blue-eyed and with gaping rotting jaws, did he cut down that night? Tormund has fought the dead alongside Jon Snow more often than he likes—more often than anyone should, in his opinion, even if they make for good stories later on, Giantsbane and White Walker-bane and putrid-flesh-and-dead-bastards-bane--but Hardhome and Winterfell still give him pause. In the past few years, he has seen death and living death on a scale that unsettles even him, though he can never admit it to anyone, hiding it behind strong ale and boisterous guffaws. There are nightmares and there are _nightmares_.

And the Wall...the _Wall_.

He must be quiet for too long because the boy coughs, his cheeks reddening from more than just the bitter blast of cold winds. Tormund shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “It’s probably just wolves and shadowcats, come from the north. I’d be hungry for fresh meat too if everything was dead and decaying for years and years.” He claps the boy on the back again. “Keep a sharp eye out that none of them get past you, eh?”

The boy gives him an unsettled look, as if he knows that Tormund is lying through his teeth. “Aye, ser.”

 _That_ takes him by surprise and when he laughs, first in disbelief and then in sheer amusement, it may be the first genuine laugh he’s uttered in days. “Ha! Ser! Have we been south that long? Next thing I know, you all will be calling me Lord Giantsbane! Ha!” He sees the boy’s slightly startled look fade into a grin and a mild blush as he stands up a little bit straighter. With one last hearty laugh and a thud on the boy's shoulder, Tormund leaves the boy at his post.

Of course, his good mood doesn’t last for long. Before he is even far back into the midst of the camp, a familiar figure dressed in black falls in step with him, his once-handsome face still deeply etched by the thoughtful frown that now seems permanently etched on his face. “We’re not making good timing.”

Tormund quickly looks around at the surrounding freefolk and northerners to see if anyone is listening and, finding that they all seem too concerned with food in their bellies and the falling night and all its unknown terrors to take notice of them, scowls back in the direction of his new companion. He keeps his voice low. “We’ve got babes and women and old and sick and injured folk here. How fast do want us to move, crow?”

Ser Something-or-Other shakes his head. “If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. It's Flint. Byrron Flint." Then he looks around him at the campfires and the people huddled around them, his own voice low as well. "I heard that they found someone else who tried to make it out there on their own. We’re moving at a glacial pace. If this keeps up, more and more people are going to think they can make it to any of the northern strongholds faster than we can.” A glint of frustration sparks in his green eyes. “I would have thought the Starks would know by now. The little lordling has an unnatural power but they should at least be aware that the Wall has fallen.”

_Thunder. Screaming. And, as he looks up and up and up, he sees the impossible shattering before his eyes, the end of the world, no no no..._

Tormund smothers the memory as it tries to claw at this throat and choke the breath out of him. His voice is rougher than he intends it to be but gods he cannot bring himself to care with this Byrron Flint, this _crow_. “And what if they did? They’re leagues away. Unless you’ve ever seen a wolf that flies, we’re on our own out here.” He knows that the Night King devastated all of the sanctuaries of men on his march from Eastwatch to Winterfell, adding untold numbers to an army that now floats as ashes upon the wind. 

How many who had fled from the shadows and the cold have returned home in the scant few weeks since the battle? How many have had a chance to rebuild the ruined timbers and the scorched earth of their livelihoods? Gods know that when the wildlings fled south years ago, they had left behind so many things, now lost beyond in the Lands of Always Winter, a shade, a memory.

No, they are alone here. Miles away from the catastrophe that fell upon Castle Black and even more miles away from the one safe haven that Tormund knows he can trust. Before, he might have thought that running back to Winterfell, running back south, was a coward’s move. But then he had seen something he never dreamed possible, more so than the demonic king of night and all of his rotten hordes of death and winter. It keeps haunting him, days later, the shrieking and the rumble, the ground shaking, and everything he had never known in his life, the very symbol of "us versus them", roaring into oblivion for no damned reason at all. Senseless. Impossible.

Flint holds his hands up, almost as if in apology. “I know that. But I also know that the freefolk are undisciplined. You have some northerners here with you and some men of the Night's Watch but what happens when whatever’s hunting us gets bolder? We have fighters, yes, but not enough to defend this whole caravan of people.”

Tormund knows all of this. He has known this since the attacks clearly became more than mere coincidence and the yawning gap of snow-covered miles between them and Winterfell suddenly felt too innumerable to count. He looks away from Flint. “We travel as fast as we can. If anyone thinks they can outrun the wolves or shadowcats or whatever hellbeast is out there in the darkness...well, they’re welcome to try. We can’t chain the lot of them down. Maybe they’ll make it to Winterfell on their own. Maybe they won’t. But I can’t stop them. And I don’t have time to try to talk sense into any of them.”

“You’d leave them to die?”

He has grabbed the front of the man’s tunic before he even realizes he is moving, fiery rage briefly whiting out his vision. He hears a few murmurs from around the fires surrounding them, can feel curious eyes on both him and the crow. To hell with it. He jerks the man close enough that he can see every deeply marked line on his ugly fucking face. He growls, “Now listen here, crow. I’m not a nursing cow for all of these folks to suck from my tit. If they want to go, they can go. For the rest who stay, that’s who I’m taking care of until we get down to where the Starks can take over. If you have a problem with it, then you can try your luck outside this camp too.” 

He shoves the man away and Flint stumbles a bit in the snow. Some people continue to watch the two of them while others duck their heads back towards their food and their ale, clearly too tired to care about whatever half-heard argument the men were having. Tormund gives the crow one last withering look before stomping off through the snow towards his own tent. 

His face must be a storm that no one is willing to trespass through, and he makes it back to his tent undisturbed. As he gropes around the dark shadows of his tent, the idea of sleep evading him as much as the promise of warmth, his mind races at the prospect of another day’s march. How far away were they from any other living soul now? When the sun rises (though gods know they haven’t actually _seen_ it in days and days), they are surrounded by nothing except the rolling hills and forests of the north as far as anything. The storm has covered most the kingsroad, the northerners in their midst had noticed, but they are still able to follow the memory of it. South and south and south they go and again.

Despite the cold and the darkness and nerves strung so tightly he can feel it as a physical knot between his shoulder blades, Tormund must fall asleep at some point. And his dreams are full of strange images: a faceless woman with the bloodied wings of some great beast sprouting from her back, a creature with a thousand faces and shadows for eyes holding a child’s sword, and the Wall itself, being consumed with a fire blazing from the east. And in his dream, he sees it again come exploding down with concussive force, the rumble sending him to his knees as the ground quakes and trembles beneath him, icy needles piercing his face, blinding him in a haze of white snow and blue ice and roses and fire and shadows and _dragons_...

In his dream, he opens his mouth to shout a warning but his throat is filled with ice and snow and he is buried and choking, turned upside down and right-side up, as the force of the Wall coming down, of the world ending again, hits him with the first of some almighty vengeful god, sucking the breath from his lungs and he sees nothing and hears nothing but feels everything, every pain in the world, burning, burning, burning…

_And_ _a horn to wake the giants from the earth…_

_The horn that wakes the sleepers…_

_The light that brings the dawn…_

_Bringer of light_ , a woman’s voice murmurs as he suffocates on ice and snow. He can almost see her as he drowns—eyes bright as starlight, hair made of flame, a red smile, and shadow and death her lover. _Lightbringer. Bring the dawn._

“Tormund!”

He wakes with a grunt and a start, sitting up to see the shaggy head of one of the wildling leaders peering into his tent. Tormund realizes the tent smells like stale sweat—gods, how long and how deeply has he been sleeping? And was he dreaming? He grasps at the fading remnants of it, of ice and fire, and feels all of it slip through his fingers. _Lightbringer, bring the dawn._ He glowers at the man half-hidden in the tent flap. “Aye? The fuck do you want?”

“Owen’s lookin’ for you,” the other man mutters. “Says there’s somethin’ you might want t' see.”

Tormund is awake instantly. “Did they find another body?”

The other man shifts, and Tormund sees the unease furrowing his brow. “It ain’t that. There’s...you have t' see.”

There is nothing about that statement that bodes well. Tormund grimaces at the prospect of finding something he is damned sure not going to like, and follows the man out in the cold. 

The temperatures have dropped precipitously since he had fallen asleep minutes—hours? Days? A lifetime?—ago, and a fresh sheet of snow layers the ground. Some of the freefolk and the northerners are still awake but far fewer than earlier, and the smoke rising from their fires is nearly ghostly in the winds blowing through the camp. Overhead, the sky is a damp dark gray, the moon and stars hidden behind ominous low-hanging clouds moving quickly from the north. The snow continues to fall silently.

The two men trudge to the outer edges of the camp, and Tormund realizes belatedly that this is the same area where the Hardhome boy from before had stood watch. A small cluster of spearwives and northern and wildling men stand just beyond the encampment, torches blazing and their faces drawn in apprehension and cold. Tormund spots Owen’s lanky form immediately, his head bent in deep thought. He also sees Ser Something-or-Other—Byrron Flint, he remembers dimly—also standing, arms crossed and looking out at the winter storm with a disconcerted frown. He sees no body torn asunder on the ground. But he also doesn’t see the boy in the midst of the group. So what…?

Owen looks up at their approach, and his expression becomes even grimmer.

“Best thought you’d like to see it for yourself,” the man says, lifting his torch a little higher and turning his gaze out towards the darkness. “I wouldn’t believe myself, not after Winterfell and what the bloody Starks did. But…” He trails off.

Tormund shoulders his way past the small knot of people gathered, and follows Owen’s gaze out into the darkness. At first, he sees nothing except an expanse of snow that disappears into infinite darkness. It briefly reminds him of another night, of the flames of Dothraki screamers flickering out in the blackness of an eternal night and the ground shaking beneath his feet as the dead approached them in a wave of decaying flesh. He peers through the darkness, hopes to any god listening that he isn’t about to be swamped by corpses yet again…

And then he sees it—a slim figure standing just beyond the light of the camp, unheeding of the blustery winter winds, fading into the darkness.

Just...standing.

He hears Owen curse behind him, and Ser Byrron mutter an oath that, on any other occasion, would have made Tormund roar with laughter. But he can only think of Winterfell and the hundreds of corpses standing just behind a fiery perimeter, blue eyes and decrepit flesh, standing...standing…

He absently reaches a hand out and someone, he doesn’t see whom, places a torch in his grasp. And Tormund finds himself walking out into the darkness like some sort of bloody fucking idiot, with only a torch in his hand and a dagger at his side to protect him from whatever he is about to discover. 

_I’ve been around that little crow too long_ , Tormund thinks darkly, remembering all of the times Jon Snow ran headfirst into danger, heedless of his own safety. It had earned the former Lord Commander Tormund's grudging respect but he wonders how much of the young man's foolish selflessness has rubbed off on him if he's walking into this like a great big twat. He approaches the standing figure cautiously, recognizing the telltale furs of a wildling. Something sours in the pit of his stomach and the strange nagging unease that he felt in those moments before the Wall came thundering down start to tickle the base of his neck.

He senses Owen just behind him as he walks up to the Hardhome boy, sees the snow gathered in little piles on his shoulders and on his food. Swallowing back the bitter taste in his mouth, Tormund lowers the torch in front of him.

He sees blue eyes. 

The color of winter.

The color of _death_.

 _No_.

But even as he takes an alarmed step backwards and his heart drops into the depths of the earth, he sees that something is...not right. The Hardhome boy—or his corpse—stares blindly ahead, not reacting to the fire from the torch at all, the golden light shining off pasty white skin and slacked jaw. And there’s no mistake the fact that he is dead. His chest is flayed open, shattered ribs and stringy innards dripping down his front, a splatter of blood in front of him. _Something_ has sliced him open from throat to navel. Tormund follows the drop of blood to the ground and sees...a spiral.

_The dead all around...a spiral in flames...and the Umber boy, shrieking with unearthly howls, as his corpse burns and burns and burns..._

The Night King is dead.

And the Wall came _down_.

The woman’s voice again, floating away into the recesses of his memory. _Lightbringer. Bring the dawn_.

The needles of unease turns into a full blown body blow and Tormund, moving as if in a dream, turns away from the unmoving corpse and looks into the darkness.

Eight black eyes stare back at him, in the face of a formless hulking beast in the shadows. He sees it moving with an odd grace. Four legs. No, six. No, _eight_. Skittering towards them, towards _him_. He sees the gleaming jaws pinching and he hears the wind howling and behind him the boy is dead and unmoving and unseeing and _cold_. 

_Bring the dawn_.

Later, he doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t remember anything except the flame of the torch in his hand and the approaching beast in the darkness, its eyes glittering, its massive white body moving with a liquid grace that was belied by its sheer size. He doesn’t recall rolling into a dodge or the powerful swipe of one of the gigantic spider’s legs that knocks him into the snow, cracking pain shooting up from his ribs where the spider had landed the blow. He doesn't remember gasping for breath, doesn't remember blindly reaching the torch from where it had fallen from his fingers. He doesn’t remember kicking the damned thing in the leg or his roar of defiance as it crawled over him, its fangs moving towards his exposed throat with inhuman speed. He doesn't remember the shouts of his companions or their blurred movement from his peripheral vision—the hovering spider too large, too monstrous, too deadly to ignore. And he certainly doesn’t recall the saliva dripping down on him before he shoves his torch straight into the creature’s maw, unsure of when he had grabbed the flames again, watching with heaving breaths, stinging pain in his throat, as the spider screeches with a sound that rocks him to his soul, its entire ice-shrouded body smoking and flaming, the blue-white carapace unable to protect it from a fire burning from the inside.

All of this is told to him much later. But he _does_ remember numbly watching as the grotesque spider scurries off into the darkness, remembers the adrenaline wearing off to be replaced by a strange and cold numbness. Dimly, he recalls wondering where the rest of the people who were standing just a few yards away were and why the _fuck_ was it so cold?

And then...he remembers nothing.

When Tormund wakes later on, it is to a sky slightly lighter than that of the night, the sun still hidden behind an overcast sky. He feels the earth rocking under him and for a moment, he is taken back to the Wall, tearing itself asunder from an undead dragon’s fires, falling to pieces in front of him, crushing his folk as they fled from it. He blinks away the images and it is only then that every single inch of his body suddenly roars with pain but for some reason, Tormund only has the energy to give a muted groan of protest.

A face appears above his a moment later—a woman. Blond. Comely. Her nose wrinkles. He sees her mouth moving but he doesn’t hear her.

“What?” he manages to croak. The woman shakes her head and presses a finger to his lips. And then a cup replaces her fingers and something warm and thick and sweeter than honey coats his tongue and he is gone from the world again.

The second time he awakens, the world is no longer shaking. The sky is still the same soft gray as it was before, and Tormund can only squint at it in annoyance. His head feels as if it is stuffed with snow and rubble, and his tongue feels as if it has swollen up to the size of his cock. The mental image makes him wince, and he struggles to sit up. He finds that he is covered with enough furs to drown in and that he is lying in the back of a wagon, as if he is some sort of crippled invalid. His limbs feel stiff and heavy and when he first sits up, he nearly doubles back over as the landscape around him spins and his stomach, usually made of dragonsteel from the sorts of ales he’s consumed over the years, flips sideways in his gut.

As he is dry heaving over the side of the wagon, he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he is being watched. He spits bile out of his mouth before looking up into amused gray eyes. It’s the woman from before, her honey-colored hair bathed in the red glow of dawn. She is sitting in the wagon with them, a dagger and a whetstone laying abandoned on her lap.

“Well, look at that,” she says, her lips tilted up in a small smile. “You’re alive.”

“If this is what alive feels like,” Tormund grunts, his voice dry and raspy, “cut my throat now.”

“Some people were taking bets on whether or not you’d make it,” the woman replies bluntly, sheathing the dagger at her side. She crawls over to him, placing the back of her hand against his forehead. “Well, at least you’re not delirious with fever anymore. So stop your whinging. I thought you were supposed to be the great Tormund Giantsbane.”

Tormund doesn’t feel like being anything except either asleep or drunk enough to dull this pain and can only manage a weak glower at the woman. “Where the fuck are we?”

The woman snorts, hopping to her feet and nimbly jumping over the side of the wagon. “I’m going to get Ser Byrron. He wanted to know the minute you were no longer drooling with fever.”

“No,” Tormund grounds out. “Owen. I want to see Owen.”

The woman pauses and even though Tormund’s head pounds as if he drank a dozen rounds of the strongest ale brewed since the First Men decided to fuck off from Essos, he can feel something tighten in his throat, a sense of knowing before she even opens her mouth.

“Leatherclaw is dead.”

She turns to leave. Tormund hesitates for only a moment before calling out to her again. “Oy. You didn’t answer me. Where _are_ we?”

She glances back at him over her shoulder before pointing just beyond him. “See for yourself.” And then she is gone. Tormund scowls at her retreating back but somehow manages to turn his protesting body. The camp has settled just beyond an encroaching wood and as far as the eye can see, there is nothing except rolling white hills and snow-caked evergreens. Except...no. Not as far as the eye could see. Just beyond, he can see the now eerily familiar walls of a stone castle, battered and bruised and broken in many places but standing nonetheless. Defiant against winter, defiant against death. 

Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is a beast before the holidays. 0/10, would not recommend. And yet I survived.
> 
> Next chapter - The King’s Daughter, the first of four (!) contiguous King’s Landing chapters. It’s time for a reckoning for Dany, Arya, and Tyrion.


	14. The King's Daughter

The acidic smell of smoke and burning flesh is still cloyingly heavy in the air, and Dany feels it cling to her like a second skin as she rides through the winding and ruined streets of King’s Landing, a handful of her faithful bloodriders at her side.

There is little enough to see. The streets are eerily quiet save for the fires still crackling in many of the buildings and the occasional rumble as yet another weakened structure collapses in on itself. A heavy layer of ash and soot coats the ground, swallowing up the clomping of their horses, devouring, Dany feels, all the sounds that ever were in the world or ever would be. She passes more than one gaping and darkened doorway, the silence nearly as complete as that of the dead men in Winterfell.

 _Dead men_.

Mounds of gray and black ash—and even those few and far between—are the only remaining markers of life in the streets that were directly hit by Drogon’s fires. The buildings here are hollowed out husks, scorched timbers and empty ceilings, still smoking from dragonfire even days later. In the darkness of the buildings, she can almost make out skeletal remains but she turns her head away before her eyes can adjust to the blackness. These areas are hushed to the point of serenity, ashes drifting down from ruined framework into the silence of their solemn observations. The ash mixes with snow, nearly turning the black and gray landscape and sky into a monochromatic winter wonderland. As if death had not truly visited King’s Landing at all.

The surrounding streets however…

The surrounding streets are apocalyptic.

Here, there are more bodies than Dany can count. Bodies charred and blackened to the point of being indiscernible as human, charred empty eye sockets and blistered jaws wide in chasmal screams. Fingers and limbs are curled up in defensive poses, as if the nameless, faceless person, even in death, is still trying to fight off their inevitable doom. Some bodies are red and raw and bloodied, clothes fused to skin and hair, still recognizable as a man or a woman or a child. She sees the Lannister colors here, soldiers and guards who had been trying to evacuate the people. Every so often, she sees the furs and leathers of a northerner. They all lay unmoving from where they fell, as she soared overhead, bringing the world's end in an inferno of hate and despair.

Her throat is dry.

“ _Khaleesi_ ,” one of her bloodriders says, as they round another corner to more devastation. He nudges his horse closer to hers. “We will burn the rest of these sheep. You do not need to see this because of the little man's words.”

Dany steadies her destrier, bringing it to a halt. She keeps her face a tight mask in front of the few members of _khalasar_ , unwilling to let even the barest hint of any emotion flicker in her eyes. She looks around at the bodies and the buildings, the ash and the blood and the sheer amount of destruction that she has wrought in her rage. This is the hallmark of her legacy, her House words made true.

_I will not look away._

“Blood of my blood,” she says in Dothraki, wheeling her horse around to face the riders. “If you see any people alive, bring them to the red towers. I will judge their fate from there.”

The men exchange glances. The bloodrider who had spoken before nods his head respectfully at her. “We understand, _khaleesi_. But these are dying sheep. They followed the golden lion, not the dragon. We will make sure that their deaths will bring no glory to the lions.”

 _Glory_ , Dany thinks, gazing around at the smoldering, blackened bodies. _This is glory._

Her words to Jon earlier flutter through her mind. This innocence had been used as a weapon. What else could she have done? It is not her fault. In that moment, she had done what was necessary to gain the throne. She is no tame dragon—after all, that is what she promised, hadn't she? Years and years ago, she remembers pledging to the Spice King, one of many who had turned a blind eye and an uncaring shoulder to her claims, a beggar queen with three small dragons and a dream.

_I will take what is mine. With fire and blood, I will take it._

And so she has. So she has.

“Bring them to me alive, Haezzo,” she repeats, turning her horse away. A few of the Dothraki prod their own horses to follow her as escorts. “I will not have my decision questioned.” 

The ride back to the Red Keep is quiet. It is profoundly different from when Dany had freed the slaves in Yunkai, when she had claimed the Unsullied for her own. She remembers basking in the glory then as she did in those hours after King’s Landing fell, the Dothraki wildly cheering her victory, the rhythmic thump of the Unsullied’s spears into the ground in tune with her heart. For a fleeting moment in time, it had felt the same. When she had touched the Iron Throne, after all of her trials and tribulations, it had felt impossibly sweet. It was magnificent. It was vindication.

But as she rides through the dead streets of the capital, the sweetness sours on her tongue.

_You slaughtered a city._

Inside the castle’s walls, she dismounts from her horse and stares up at the looming, scorched walls of the keep. She has promised liberation of the world, even as the city she has taken crumbles to ruin beneath her feet. They will need to rebuild, she thinks numbly. Make the city better and more illustrious than it ever was even in the days of her ancestors. The world will come to see her as a savior and her seat of power will be the glittering gem of her reign.

Dany looks down at her clothing. She is stained with battle, soot and ash ( _and blood_ ). There are...decisions that must be made. She had ridden into the city to postpone it, as something in her stings with the knowledge of justification and reproach. But there is no more waiting, no more hesitation.

She must do this.

She must pass the judgment.

There is no pomp or splendor when she finally takes her rightful seat on the Iron Throne. Several dozen of her Unsullied line the walls of the throne room as she enters it once again. The lord and ladies of King’s Landing have all either fled to surrounding strongholds in the days before her attack or have perished in the destruction that engulfed a sizeable portion of the city. It matters not to her—these were men and women who had supped and wined with Cersei Lannister and were certainly no allies of hers. Her allies are in Dorne and the Iron Islands, the Reach and the stormlands...and...

_Maybe...just once...I wanted to do the wrong thing._

Her heart clenches.

She has quickly changed from her battle leathers to a simple split-sleeved black dress and crimson cloak—certainly not the dress of a coronation ceremony but Dany thinks her true coronation was in fire and blood. She needs no crown when she has both of her children flying free in the skies above the capital. She has proven herself certainly, that she is a Targaryen in truth and in deed. She has washed the destruction from her hair and her face, as if it never happened at all.

_My father was an evil man._

_And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father._

The walk to the Iron Throne is a long one.

She climbs the dais and, for a moment longer than is strictly necessary, keeps her back turned towards her faithful soldiers, gazing beyond the molten swords and fallen columns to the great city laid at her feet. Her city. Her victory.

Burning.

She takes in a breath. It stings her throat. As she sits—finally, finally, _finally_ —she realizes that her hands are shaking and she clasps both tightly on her lap. She must project an image of calm. Of assurance. Of tranquility. This is what she wants, what she has always wanted. Her home. Her throne. Her destiny. This is what is right. This is what should be...

Something in her heart is trembling, screaming, crying, and she struggles to smother it. But, with the images of the city still fresh in her mind, she remembers a furor so intense and deafening in the depths of her very being, it did not even seem to belong to her—and in an instant of doubt and pealing bells, it had _consumed_ her. Murmurs of the inferno, blazing heat, destruction and hell—and a voice in her head, twisted fury and hate, seductively whispering against the bells... _burn them all. Burn it to the ground. Let them die, let them suffer, for everything they have done, for everything they have taken away, let them go down into hell screaming._

It is gone now, the voice and the savage indignation. In its place, there is only a husk of that vengeful hate, leaving her heart as burned out as the city itself.

She steadies herself with a breath. Even if she doesn’t understand any of it, she cannot look back. She _cannot_.

“Bring them in.”

It is a clarion call, echoing impossibly loud in the massive room. The doors at the end of the throne room do not swing open so much as stutter and creak open, the hinges loudly protesting their warped and dented state. Dany feels as if her heart has climbed up into her throat.

The two figures are heavily guarded by a dozen of her Unsullied. Surely, the small man does not need such a guard but Dany watches the girl closely. Even bruised and caked with blood, she knows that this young woman is the one who had, with her cunning and stealth, killed the Night King and gravely injured her Master of War. This is a woman not to be underestimated in the slightest, no matter how injured she seems to be. It would mean, Dany thinks, her undoing and her death if she is anything less than terribly cautious with Arya Stark.

The younger woman’s eyes are flat and dark with loathing but she has schooled her face into an expressionless mask. Her former Hand makes no attempt to do the same.

With Missandei gone ( _a clear resigned voice in her head, bestowing a benediction of destruction, and the horrible, terrible aftermath of her dearest friend standing...and then falling, first her head and then body toppling from a parapet_ ), there is no herald to announce Dany’s list of titles. The silence that stretches in the absence only makes the grief, still fresh, still raw, bloom in Dany’s chest. 

It is almost a welcomed reprieve from the muddled emotions currently confusing her heart.

It is Tyrion, of course, who breaks the silence.

“To what do we owe the honor of standing before the Mad Queen?”

 _Mad_ , Dany thinks with a desperate and fatigued fury. _No, no. It is not madness. You cannot pass this judgment on me. You will not._

She keeps her voice dispassionate. “You sent the Warden of the North to kill me.”

She sees the Stark girl give Tyrion an aside glance, though she is unable to decipher the emotions that flicker in her eyes ever so briefly. She watches as Tyrion’s jaw works around what are no doubt very choice words for her—she can see his own exhaustion bruising his face, in the shadows under his eyes and the deep lines in his forehead. _Say it. Tell me I’m wrong and I will call you a liar and take your head here and now._

“I told him he had a choice,” Tyrion says, his voice clipped. His eyes narrow. “As we all do.”

_I freed my brother. And you slaughtered a city._

“A choice,” Dany echoes bitterly, even as his words from that day ring as loudly as the bells in her head, words she can never escape from. Her nails dig into the soft flesh of her palm. “To bury a dagger in my heart, to betray me as you did. This is what you asked of him—you turned him into a weapon under the guise of a _choice_.”

Silence falls between them again. Dany feels the glowing embers of anger settle in her heart, of righteous indignation...but they only smoke and smolder compared to the gray waves of despair clinging to her. She has her dragons— _both_ of them, oh Rhaegal, alive, alive, alive—and she has Jon and she has armies upon armies. The world should be hers. To do what is right, just as she told Jon. To make it better.

The memories of the dead flicker through her mind. The burned corpses. The charred children. The smell of smoke and roasting flesh and death. Ashes on her hair, on her tongue. The silence, suffering on and on and on.

_You slaughtered a city._

Her nails break her skin.

“Tyrion of House Lannister,” she says, her voice quiet and somehow steady even as her head roars with some inexplainable emotion, “I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons—”

“Where’s Jon?”

Her eyes snap towards the Stark girl, her words of execution dying on her tongue. She narrows her eyes. “I do not recall giving you leave to speak, Arya Stark.”

Dany can detect the barest hint of disgust in the Stark girl’s voice when she coldly responds, “House Stark does not answer to tyrants or murderers. Where is my brother?”

She can feel her jaw clench against a scream building up from deep in her chest. House Stark. How can one family be the source of her joy _and_ the source of her fury and everlasting ire? She remembers the frigid disdain Sansa Stark greeted her with when she and Jon first arrived in Winterfell, the emotionless acquiescence of the Stark stronghold. She remembers toasting Arya Stark in the celebration after their defeat of the Night King, the girl nowhere to be found and soon to be whispering seeds of distrust to Jon. And she remembers the eldritch seer that wears the face of Jon’s younger brother, his dark eyes always watching her, judging her, as if she were merely a minuscule piece in the grand game he seems to be playing with all of them.

She has tried, hasn’t she, to make peace with this self-righteous and judgmental family? Gods know she has tried, for her own sake and Jon’s. So what is it worth? What is any of it worth if they will always condemn her, no matter what she does, no matter what she says? It is always the North, above all things, above anything else. She is only the foreign whore, the one who has taken their brother away, ensnared him with her wiles.

_You’re a dragon. Be a dragon._

_You have a gentle heart._

_You’re not like everyone else…_

An old woman’s advice. A protector’s praise. A young man’s admiration.

_You slaughtered a city._

She stands then. She can feel a strange dizziness wrap around her skull, darkening the edges of her vision. She only sees Tyrion—betrayal, hurt, anger—and the Stark girl, and it is as if every mistake, every hurt, everything she has lost is standing in front of her, personified in their accusing stares. She can smell death on the wind, sees the ashes and snowflakes continue to rain down from the open sky.

“You told him to make a choice,” she says, her voice impossibly loud to her own ears. “He made one. He chose _me_.”

The lull is thunderous.

She sees Tyrion’s eyes close, a spasm of pain and resignation and utter, abject disappointment across his face. It is a knife to her heart, to her soul—to see this man she had once trusted, whose council she had listened to, often to her own detriment...to see him _saddened_ by the fact that Jon has chosen a different path, has chosen _her_.

The queen of ashes.

“My brother is a good man.” Arya Stark’s words are matter-of-fact and cut through her anguish. The girl’s eyes are still shards of ice. “He would never stand for what you’ve done. Even if he loved you. Because he knows what’s right.”

_Let me be wrong._

Will he forgive her of this? Has he misplaced his faith in her? 

_Because I know what it is good._

It is her voice. But it is not her voice.

She sees movement in the back of the throne room. She looks past the pair of prisoners only briefly, meeting Jon’s eyes in a heartbeat of a moment. How long as he been there? She watches him take in the scenario in front of him but she is too far away to see any emotion in his eyes. Resignation? Fear? Anger?

Regret?

_Please. Please…_

She tears her eyes away. It feels as if she has swallowed fire.

“You have sought to have me killed,” Dany accuses, the beating of her heart roaring as loudly as a dragon’s scream. Gods, can they hear it? Can he sense it? “I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Your home—the North—is one of those kingdoms. You have committed an act of treason. Do you deny it?”

Arya stares at her, defiant, silent. Tyrion’s gaze slides from Dany to Arya and back again. 

Her voice is now deadly quiet. “For the sake of your brother and the love that I have for him, swear your allegiance to House Targaryen and I will let you live. You will leave Westeros and give up all claims hitherto bestowed upon you by your House. And if you ever return, you _will_ forfeit your life.”

The she-wolf, bloodied and arrogant and cold as the bitterest winter gale, lifts her chin. “I’m not afraid of you. House Stark will never bend the knee to House Targaryen. Never again.”

“It is not your choice to make.”

“You have no power over the North. Winter _will_ come for House Targaryen.”

Dany closes her eyes, her lips pressed firmly against a thousand words, a thousand accusations, a thousand defenses. This is how she begins her rule. With fire and blood and death and destruction. The wheel spins faster and faster in her mind’s eye, cutting through skin and muscle and bone, blood and sinew and life itself spewing everywhere. Her destiny. Her mistakes. Her legacy.

_A gentle heart._

_Let it be fear._

That’s not her. That’s...not... _her_.

Tyrion watches her. She can feel the calculation on her skin like heat, like swarming insects. 

“Winter will come for me?” she finds herself saying, slowly opening her eyes, her words a mere breath, a whisper, a taunt. “Before you even knew me, you had decided to loathe me. You had already draped me in a villain’s cloak and wed me to evil. When I destroyed this city, it made no difference because you had already chosen a side. Even if I had only killed Cersei, you still would have hated me. Because I am not of the North. Because I am not one of you. Because I love your brother. I was never going to be allowed to grieve or rage or hurt because whatever I did would be painted with the black brush of your prejudice.”

She cannot bring herself to look at Jon again. She cannot. She will not.

“I have sacrificed for your home. I have _bled_ for your home. I have lost people I loved. And now you stand before me, to tell me you will not kneel, you will not _bend,_ that the North will openly defy everything I will ever do. No matter what I sacrifice, no matter who I lose, no matter what I do—I will always be the villain, the enemy. How dare you. How _dare_ you.” 

She wants to scream but if she starts, she knows she’ll never stop. She was right ( _she was wrong_ ), and now her own heart is condemning her ( _I am the blood of the dragon, we do not bow, we will not break_ ). Her heart is in flames as she takes one step down from the throne, hands curling into fists at her side, feeling Jon’s eyes on her like a branding iron. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something flicker across Tyrion’s face at her words but she does not, cannot turn to look at him.

_You slaughtered a city._

_Why? Why did I...that’s not me...that’s not_ me _._

“I will not back down. I am the dragon’s daughter and I take what is mine with fire and blood. You will grovel...or you will die.”

The girl-assassin does not relent. The words mean nothing to her. Even bloody and bruised and exhausted, the she-wolf’s neck is as stubborn as the winter itself. “My brother will stop you. The North remembers.”

Dany feels the indignation, the pride, the horror, and all of the terrible things in the world, wrap around her throat, choking her. So be it.

So be it.

“Arya of House Stark,” she whispers, “I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons...sentence you to die.” She gestures to the Unsullied guards still standing nearby the duo. “Take her.”

She ventures a gaze to the back of the room. Jon is gone.

The guards escort the she-wolf from the room and despite the proclamation of death hanging above her head, the girl’s spine is straight and rigid. Dany watches them go, feeling as if she is standing over a precipice of fire, winter winds at her back and death below. The war has ended. The war has begun. She has won and she has lost and she will continue to fight. She has her dragons, impossibly. She has Jon. She has the throne.

And the cost…

The cost.

She meets Tyrion’s eyes finally. She sees the confusion written across his brow, the surprise. He seems to be considering words, to speak something that she knows will break her. She cannot do this. Not with him. Not now.

“Take him away,” she commands, tearing her gaze away and staring stonily at the back of the throne room. Where Jon had been. Where Jon no longer was. “I will decide his fate later.”

His questioning look settles on her like the ash, even long after his footsteps and those of the guards have dwindled away.

She takes another step down from dais then and, keeping her head high, walks slowly out of the throne room. Somewhere outside, she can hear the sound of dragonsong soaring into the falling night. Her dragons—both of them. Viserion is gone and yes, there is nothing she can do about that. But the gods have given her back Rhaegal.

_Only death can pay for life._

Has the death of thousands of civilians brought her dragon back from the watery depths? Have innocent men and women and children breathed life into her child? But how? How?

She can smell the city burning. 

The bells...the _bells_...

And suddenly she is running.

Her hair streams behind her as she races through the torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep, as if she is being chased by the thousands of ghosts of the people she has burned alive. This is what she fought for, this is what she fought against. And now it is her damnation and her legacy, the Targaryen queen who brought fire down from the sky just like her ancestor, bringing an entire country to heel. She is the blood of the dragon—this is her birthright. It is her right, her duty, her fate.

_You slaughtered a city._

Her lungs burn. Her legs pump faster. She had defended the North from the Night King and his army and had lost her beloved bear for it. She had fought to overthrow Cersei, on advice she had taken from the very man who now condemns her, and had lost Missandei and Rhaegal for it. She has fought and she has been betrayed. She has won and she has been rejected. Her blood is hot with victory but she has gained that victory by destroying the very thing she had once vowed to protect.

_If I look back, I am lost._

_I am…_

_I am…_

She stops, gasping for breath. Glancing around wildly, she realizes that she has run to one of the few areas of the Red Keep that had not taken as much damage from dragonfire as the rest. Like Dragonstone, a place that should feel like home feels like nothing. It is her conquest but not a homecoming. She shudders.

She is the queen now. She cannot afford to show weakness or hesitancy or doubt. The North is already bucking. They will fight her. But she cannot show mercy. Not to the woman who would have her killed. And Arya Stark is already celebrated as the one who singlehandedly defeated the demonic forces of winter. Even the Warden of the North and the Lady of Winterfell will not have much sway over the mutiny if Dany kills her.

But this cannot stand. 

She leans back against the wall, her chest heaving. The younger brother already knows, she realizes. He can see everything and everyone. It was folly to keep a weapon that powerful in the hands of the North, in the hands of Sansa Stark. Everything she will ever do will be known to the Starks the moment she does it. Has Sansa already decided to declare war on her? Is the realm crawling from one supernatural war and a war against the lions to a war between dragons and wolves, between north and south?

Dany closes her eyes, feeling bile in her throat.

_I will not bend. I will not break._

Jon.

She must find Jon.

It takes the better part of an hour to unwind her way through the labyrinth that is the Red Keep, to find the living quarters that the northerners have set up in another wing of the castle that looks mildly less ready to collapse into a pile of rubble. It is probably still a far better option than dwelling outside amongst the bloated and burned corpses. The men are still wary of her but they do not cast traitorous looks her way, not yet. The Unsullied will not have spoken of her seal on Arya Stark’s fate. Tyrion is a prisoner, confined by his lonesome in a heavily guarded storeroom. Davos is loyal to Jon and he does not strike her as a man to spread rumors. And Jon...Jon…

Dany slips out of sight from the men, and ventures to the end of a long hall, sequestered from the rest of the soldiers. She stands in front of the door to his room, wondering if he will even still be there. She has not asked him to choose—no, she is not Tyrion, she would never—but it still feels as if she has laid the judgment at his feet, to ask him to turn a blind eye to the death sentence of his sister. Will he ride back to Sansa, to tell her of his queen’s madness? Will he try to rescue Arya as Tyrion had done Jaime? Does he trust her? Can she trust him? How can one man fill her with so much doubt?

She stares at the door for a moment longer and then, taking a shaky breath, pushes against it, only mildly surprised as it gives beneath her shove.

She enters into the room quietly. It is silent and dark, save for the fire crackling in the hearth. For a moment, she thinks it’s true, that he has left her, of course he has left her, everyone has left her, the Mad Queen, ire and rage and damnation...and then her eyes adjust to the darkness and she sees him across from the door by the window. He is sitting on the ledge, one knee drawn up to his chest, gazing quietly out at the city and the expanse of stars and moon that frame him. He doesn’t turn to look at her or acknowledge her, and Dany feels her heart tighten, first in rage at his obstinance and then with that ever-present longing, that warmth that floods her whenever she sees this beautiful man.

She closes the door behind her.

“Is she dead?”

Her hand stills on the door handle, her breath latching in her chest. 

“Arya. Is she dead?”

She harshly lets out the breath and turns to face him. He continues looking out the window. “No. No, not yet.” When he still doesn’t look at her, she takes a few silent steps into the room. “He told you that, didn’t he? Tyrion. He told you that would have to choose between your sisters and me. You knew this was a possibility. You knew that they would take a stand against me. What would you have me do?”

She wants to take his hand. She doesn’t.

Jon is quiet. And then, “I didn’t recognize them when I came home. Everyone had changed. We all changed. They were...stronger than I remembered.” He lets out a sigh. “You were right.”

Right? And then she remembers.

_She’s not the girl you grew up. Not after what she’s seen, not after what they’ve done to her._

Dany doesn’t know what to say to that. She will not apologize for her words. But does he feel as if, in his ignorance of her warning, he has sentenced his little sister to death as much as she has? She cannot be responsible for that. She is already drowning.

She takes a few more steps towards him. “Sansa will know what I have done. We will have to prepare. Your brother…”

Jon abruptly stands then, running a hand in agitation through his hair. It is the first time, she realizes belatedly and with a mild start, that she has ever seen it unbound. A part of her is tempted to reach forward, to tangle her fingers in the black curls but the throb in her hand reminds her of where her nails had gouged into her skin and she remembers the roar of emotions in her head and in her heart in the throne room. The mistakes, the betrayals, the furor, and the weight of death—all of it, hanging over her like a noose.

“We can’t afford another war.” His tone is frustrated. “We barely survived this one.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she replies incredulously. This is safe. These are not accusations. She can fight this. “We’ve conquered King’s Landing. I will not have this turn into a civil war within this city’s gates because of your sisters.”

“Because of my…” Jon lets out a breath. “Send her away, Dany.”

“I gave her that choice. She refused it.”

"They will never stop fighting you if you do this."

"And I am to trust that she will keep her word if I let her go? That she will never stop trying to kill me?" 

He gives her an imploring look.

"Don't trust her. Trust _me_."

Screaming in her mind, in her heart. 

_Please. You chose me. Fight for me. Be with me._

The precipice looms.

She looks away. “How can you ask me to do this? Even if she is your sister, how can you ask me to trust you? You came to bury a dagger in my heart.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you intended to!”

“Dany.” There is something broken in his voice and it is more than what just happened in the throne room and what happened in the city and every terrible thing that they have torn themselves to bloody shreds about over these past several days. “How many times do I have to tell you that I will always choose you? How many times do you need me to say it before you believe me?”

He moves towards her and cups her face in his hands and she stares up at his dark eyes that are cautious and warm and _blazing_ with some unknown darkness, lust and longing and desire. 

_If I look back, I am lost._

She wants to believe him. 

She wants to trust him.

She wants…

She wants…

She surges forward to capture his lips with her own, heedless of the madness that has gripped her, not caring about what anyone thinks, what anyone wants from them because this is what _she_ wants. He tastes like winter and smoke and blood, a heady combination that only ignites that flame within her into an all-consuming inferno. She wants this. She needs this. Now.

Anything to burn the screaming in her heart away.

He doesn’t push her away, not like before, in those days at Winterfell and the horrible, tension-filled weeks afterwards ( _my name...my real name…_ ). She can feel him grab at her with the same unspoken desperation, the same heat that has been bubbling under her skin ever since they arrived in his home weeks and weeks and weeks ago. For his sake, she has tried to quench it. For his honor, she has turned a blind eye. But now he has made his choice and she does not care about the honor or the doubt or any of the things that came before.

_The world will come for us. The ice and the blood and death...it will come for us. It will always come for us._

She just wants it all to go away. 

Her fingers bunch into the cloth of his tunic, dragging him closer. Even from their first meeting, there has always been an inconceivable force between them, the dragon and the wolf. Now she knows that it is blood singing to blood, eons of dragonfire igniting and erupting. They could run, try to ignore it—as he had, for weeks now, pushing her away, averting his eyes—but they will always come back together. They cannot run from this. It has always meant to be the two of them, against the rage of the world and the end of days.

It has always been.

_It is known._

He has pressed her against the wall next to the window, the stone cold and hard against her back. She can feel him pushing her skirts up to her waist, her legs already wrapped around his waist for purchase. “Please,” she murmurs into the kiss, her hand at the back of his neck, rocking against him, steadying him. “Please, please. Jon. I need...please.” And then her head thuds back against the wall, as his fingers find her slick and hot and wanting. She gasps as he strokes her, pressing his lips against her name, whispering her name like a prayer into her skin, as if she can grant him salvation.

She hears the thrumming of her own heartbeat in her ears, mixed with the wet and rhythmic sounds of Jon’s fingers pumping in and out of her. This is too slow. She wants more. She needs more. She knots her fingers through his thick black curls, pulling him away from his supplications at her bare neck. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, barely trusts herself to walk with the way he is touching her, little gasps of pleasure every time his thumb brushes over her clit.

“Dany…” he breathes unevenly, staring up at her. She must be a sight, she knows—her pupils blown, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed with desire. But she doesn’t care. She remembers their first kiss, the hesitation, the softness of their lovemaking aboard a ship in the middle of the sea. This is different. She can feel something dark and powerful unfurling in her chest this time, ready to crack open and consume the entire world with a shriek. She brushes her fingers against his lips, rolling her hips against his hand. He closes his eyes.

Somehow, in her desperation, she manages to push his hand away from her—stroking, pumping, gods nothing should feel this _good—_ and, shoving her way down his breeches, wraps her own hand around his cock. She watches him swallow convulsively, the sheen of sweat across his forehead and collarbone, thinks how much she cannot stand for sweet words and gentle touches tonight. Her back still pressed firmly against the wall, disheveled from the waist up and naked from the waist down, she guides him to her entrance and throws her head back as, without provocation or urging, he thrusts into her.

They have not had this in so long. Not since before Winterfell, when duty and death and betrayal had fallen heavily on their shoulders, a weight that crushed them into muteness and resentment. She clings to him now, eyes closed to shut out everything except his arms around her and his cock inside her, the world and all its rules be thrice damned to hell.

“Yes,” she urges, nails digging into his shoulder, her words stumbling on moans and broken gasps. “Yes. Jon. Please. _Please_.”

And when he kisses her, swallowing her rage and her fear and her desire with blistering heat, his own moans mingled with hers, two dynamic forces crashing together like an inevitable storm, dragon and wolf, fire and ice, calamitous pain and inconceivable pleasure, she unravels. 

She comes with a gasp and a scream, riding the waves of something that is just beyond her grasp to describe as he continues to thrust into her, until it engulfs him too, until he buries his face into her shoulder with a soft groan, arm tightening around her waist as he spends his seed inside her. She can feel dampness seep down her thigh but she is too busy trying to catch her breath to care.

Eventually, they collapse onto his bed in a tangle of limbs and half-torn clothing, she sprawled halfway on top of him. She can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath her touch, beneath sweat-slicked skin. She sits up. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted and swollen from her kisses, his black curls in disarray.

“Always,” she finally says.

He cracks open his eyes to peer up at her. “Always?”

“I want you to tell me always.” She leans over him, her pale hair cascading over her shoulder like a waterfall. “I want your advice. I want your caution. I want _you_. By my side. Always.” She doesn’t say _need_. No, she doesn’t need him. But gods, she wants him to stay. She wants him to always choose her, no matter what. 

_Tell me. Tell me...please._

He stares at her for a moment longer, a moment that holds the entire world in it. Despite their desperate fuck barely a few minutes past, his skin feels cold against hers, but she is a furnace. The fire lives within her. For every good thing in the world and every terrible thing, they are both children of the dragons and their blood is made of the greatest dynasty to ever come to the shores of Westeros. The dragons are fire made flesh, and so are they, the last Targaryens.

_You have a gentle heart._

Oh.

How she has _lost_.

And finally, without provocation and to her lasting shame, she begins to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it was almost a month between updates last time so here, have two chapters in less than a week, as Dany tries to come to grips with her fast-forwarded character development. I have also updated the rating of this fic from Teen to Mature.
> 
> Next chapter: The Condemned Man - Tyrion tries to make heads or tails out of what in the world just happened.


	15. The Condemned Man

The night passes but Tyrion cannot sleep.

The Unsullied have returned him to the same storeroom as before and have all but thrown him in. He knows not all of them fluently speak the Common Tongue but clearly they have understood enough to realize that he had more or less told the Warden of the North to kill their grand savior. His hip and knees bear the bruises from the force of his fall, the physical injury to his already ignominious insult. Hours later, he can still feel his left knee throbbing in phantom pain despite the fact that his legs have been splayed out in front of him for the better part of that time.

They did not bring the Stark girl in with him. He does not know her fate, does not know if she has already been burned alive. Gods help all of the poor bastards that survived the War of the Five Kings and the battle against winter and the horror here in King’s Landing once the North hears of this. 

But that is not what keeps him awake. Nor is it his looming execution, whenever and however the queen decides that may be.

No, he keeps replaying the scene from the throne room in his mind, over and over again. 

Tyrion has always prided himself on his powers of observation and his ability to out think any and all of his enemies—in a world that is cruel to him in every other aspect of his physical form, his mind was (is?) his one true reliable weapon. It is a pity then that those attributes of his seem to have waned in the past few years, ever since he fled Westeros after lodging an arrow in Tywin Lannister’s bowels. Truly, he spent most of his desperate escape in various stages of intoxication but he knows he didn’t do any irreparable damage after a lifetime of being in his cups.

Since then he has given Daenerys nothing except poor advice from the moment he came into her services. He is sure that his father, gods damn his soul, is churning in his grave at the laughably amateurish decisions Tyrion has made, the man who had once cleverly saved King’s Landing from Stannis Baratheon. There is bitter self-reproach here, frustration at his own blind spots that, in hindsight, are so glaringly obvious he could choke on them. Trust Cersei? Truly? The woman who wanted him dead for years and years and who schemed and plotted her way to the throne? 

Foolishness.

And yet...

The gears in his head churn and he can almost see the flakes of dust and soot float through his mind. He remembers walking through the decimated streets of King’s Landing, stepping past the obliterated and burned corpses of men, women, and children. He remembers the rage and the grief, tearing into his throat, leaving his thoughts bloody, even as he threw his brooch—the very symbol of all the power he had left in the world, the symbol of dragons, of complacence—onto the stairs. The woman who had looked at him then had not been the queen he had loved, the woman he had followed to the precipice of death on belief that she could be the catalyst of change that the world so desperately needed.

He remembers too, his talks with Jorah Mormont and Varys, in the months leading up to the journey to the Winterfell and in the weeks after the battle against the forces of winter. He has failed her, and Varys’s comments about the queen’s mental stability became more and more pronounced, especially after Jon’s parentage came to light.

It was inevitable, he recalls thinking, as he tried to convince Jon Snow to bury a dagger in the queen’s heart. For the sake of the world, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of his sisters...Tyrion remembers what he had seen, remembers what he had said, and knows that there was no other choice in the world. 

The woman—the Mad Queen—had to die.

And then he had stepped into the throne room.

Tyrion has failed. He has failed more times than he can remember these past handful of years. He has made grievous tactical errors that have lost them advantage after advantage after advantage, almost laughably stacking the deck in Cersei’s favor. He has made decisions that have cost the lives of people closest to a woman he loved (loves? This hurts). He has lost. 

Yet.

The woman on the throne, dressed in the blacks and crimsons of her House, had a face that was nearly impossible to read, her clothes and silvery-blond hair washed clean of ash and grime. Her eyes had been hard, her mouth pressed into a thin line of condemnation. She had been willing to kill him right then if the Stark girl had not interrupted, if the queen had not revealed that Jon Snow, for some unfathomable reason, had spared her life, choosing her over his family and his home.

 _Perhaps not so unfathomable_ , Tyrion thinks tiredly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to rest against the wall. It had become clear that the Stark girl had tried, somehow, to kill the queen in the epilogue of the annihilation of the city. It had become even more clear as the queen had, however unsuccessfully, tried to offer the Stark girl banishment over death.

And then…

And then.

 _No matter what I sacrifice, no matter who I lose, no matter what I do—I will always be the villain, the enemy. How dare you. How_ dare _you._

He can hear it now, the whisper of something in the queen’s voice that spoke of an emotion more deeply felt than sheer madness. In confronting the Stark girl’s promise of winter and retribution from the North, Tyrion had seen the cracks in the facade. And this makes no sense, not to Tyrion’s logical mind, the part that is still halfway functioning. He has viewed it from dozens of different angles in the hours since his imprisonment (has it been days? The gray shadows over King’s Landing make it impossible to tell the passage of time). And still he has only leapt onto one answer, one answer that makes sense more than all others. And it is an answer that makes him queasy, that makes sweat dot upon his brow at the sheer implications of it.

_Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it. And she grows more powerful and more sure that she is good and right._

_I worry about her state of mind._

_I was never going to be allowed to grieve or rage or hurt because whatever I did would be painted with the black brush of your prejudice._

_Our intentions were good._

Their intentions...his words to Jon...the grief in the queen’s eyes...

The queen, for all her victories and her pride and her words of conquest, is _hurting_.

Tyrion rubs at his face wearily. It makes no sense. How could the queen bring death and destruction to the capital one moment, and reel from her decision the next? And he had placed his bets on Jon, only to realize that Jon himself is now the unknown variable in all of this. The queen’s madness—and is it truly madness?—is known. What Sansa will do, what she has already done, is known. But Jon? No, he wagered on Jon’s love for his sisters and for his home to spur his honor and loyalty into action. But it hadn’t. He has chosen the queen, and the queen is…

The queen is...

When the Unsullied finally come for hm, Tyrion is still stuck on that thought. His head pounds as if he has spent the past month drinking himself into a stupor but he finds that, other than his initial exhaustion with all of this, his lack of sleep isn’t impeding him too much. He slowly gets to his feet, peering up at the dark and expressionless faces of the men who have come to take him to his death.

“Well,” he says but finds there is no ready quip on his tongue. Perhaps that has already preceded him into death. 

The guards lead him through the winding maze that is the Red Keep. While many hallways and corridors are familiar, many have been rendered unrecognizable from the attack. Ceilings have caved in, walls have been obliterated, a thick sheet of dust and rubble covers the ground, and some sections of the keep are completely _gone_. Tyrion briefly thinks about the lower sections of the castle and a dull stabbing pain once again goes through his heart. 

_Oh Jaime…_

It occurs to him, after a few minutes and as his legs begin cramping painfully, that the Unsullied aren’t taking him to a place where Drogon can easily burn his small form to a crisp. The confusion and hesitancy in him grows with each step--perhaps the queen is going to lop his head off instead. Maybe Drogon is fresh out of flames and smoke after incinerating an entire city.

It is with some alarm that he realizes that the Unsullied have led him to the Tower of the Hand...or at least what remains of it. The stairwell is choked with rubble and debris that the Unsullied have to pick through, leading him upwards and upwards. Somewhere far above his head, Tyrion can hear the wind whistling through what he supposes are the remnants of the upper portions of the Tower. Perhaps the queen means to throw him off the highest portion of the Tower. How symbolic.

Only when they reach a mid-level chamber does Tyrion remember the last time he was in this tower, years and years ago. A poisoned king. A sham trial. A dead Viper.

A betrayal. 

_And a chain and a keep are nothing, compared to a woman’s kiss…_

Tyrion’s hands clench around the ghostly memory of a crossbow in his hands. That memory feels as if another person lived it. Gods, was his life so much simpler, so much easier to comprehend, when it was only politics and backstabbing and his father’s looming shadow instead of monsters and dead things and dragons?

One of the Unsullied guards pushes open a battered door that creaks noisily in its frame. The other guard shoves the butt of his spear into Tyrion’s lower spine, ushering him forward. Tyrion stumbles from the shove but manages not to fall—instead, once in the room, he glances quickly around to see if there is conveniently placed window, door, or hole in the wall to unceremoniously dump him from.

He sees nothing. In fact, the only other occupant in the room is...

“This is familiar,” Tyrion says to a tired-looking Jon Snow as the Unsullied, with a matching pair of menacing looks shot at Tyrion, depart the room. He glances at the sheathed Longclaw that rests at the young man’s hip. “I suppose there is some justice in having you kill me. No more than I deserve anyway. An odd place to do it though, if you ask me. I am quite surprised our beloved queen did not want to make a show of—”

“I’m not here to kill you.”

“Oh.” Perhaps that should be more of a relief but for some reason, all Tyrion feels is frustrated. Exhausted, perhaps. He gives Jon a flat look. “It seems as if this is a running theme for you now, this whole...not killing people.”

He expects Jon to look ashamed, maybe even a little embarrassed—after all, he has more or less given Daenerys loose rein on the fates of his sisters and the North. Tyrion had also once jested that the young man was terribly good at brooding and, if their last conversation is anything to go by, clearly not much has changed in the intervening months. 

However, something briefly flares in Jon’s eyes, something heated and mercurial that Tyrion cannot quite put his finger on. It is gone before he can really decipher it but it is enough to give him pause.

“You gave me a choice,” Jon says. “I made one.”

“Yes, well…” Tyrion eyes him warily. “Considering the threat that your queen poses to your sisters and your home, perhaps I was hoping for a different outcome.”

Jon meets Tyrion’s eyes and says nothing.

 _Does he really look like Rhaegar_ , Tyrion abruptly wonders in the silence that drops heavily between them. The coloring is all wrong, of course--in that, Jon Snow looks more like a Stark than either Tyrion’s former wife or the Young Wolf ever did. And Tyrion of course had never seen Lyanna Stark, though stories of a wintery beauty enough to sway a dragon prince from his desert rose were plentiful growing up. How many people in the world are left now who witnessed the inspiration for those stories first hand? How many people would see hints of a dragon prince or a wolf maiden in the Warden of the North?

_The fact is, people are drawn to him._

And hadn’t the same been said of Rhaegar Targaryen?

The silence ebbs on and Tyrion, never known to sit comfortably in quiet, lets out a sigh. “If you are not here to kill me—and I suspect you are not here to gloat—may I ask...why?”

“Why I chose her?” Until this moment, Tyrion would never have believed that Jon Snow to be able to mask his emotions, not for someone who wore his heart on his sleeve so openly. And yet even Tyrion, who once upon a time believed himself an excellent judge of character, cannot decipher the man’s face. “Or why I didn’t choose the North?”

“Either. Both. I admit that it confounds me.” Jon falls quiet again and Tyrion pushes a little further. “You are aware she has sentenced your youngest sister to death, I hope. And it will not be long before she turns her sights to the North and does the same to Sansa. The realm will bleed.”

“Because I couldn’t bury a knife in Dany’s heart?” Jon asks. But there is no heat in his words. He glances at Tyrion with a faint frown on his face. “Your brother once did the same thing, to save the realm. He killed the Mad King, ended a war.”

“And earned himself the title of Kingslayer for the rest of his life, yes.” _Oh Jaime_. “Is that what concerned you? What people would say about you? I’d imagine that being the bastard of Winterfell toughened you up to such titles, as much as the dwarf of Casterly Rock did for me.”

Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch away from the accusation. Instead his gaze travels over Tyrion’s head to the door. “No, not the title. I don’t care about the title. But…” He trails off, almost thoughtfully.

“‘But’...?”

“You saw her.”

Ah, so he _was_ there in the throne room. Tyrion had suspected, from the flurry of quickly-concealed emotions that had spasmed across the queen’s face, but could not confirm it until now. So he must know that the queen sentenced his sister to death...but that isn’t the striking thing of his words. Tyrion stops, clenches his jaw, and looks away. A sigh is building up in his chest and it burns like wildfire. Gods, he must know. Is this why...could this be the reason...? But why else? Why else damn his sisters and the North to the wrath of the Targaryen queen?

“I saw her, yes,” Tyrion admits slowly. Jon glances back at him.

“And...?”

“And." The next part feels as if the words are being drawn up from a poisoned well, impossibly heavy if the implications are true. He takes a few steps closer to Jon, his expression solemn even as his heart starts trying to break out of his rib cage. “This is a period at the end of a sentence. What is done is done and no one can change that. But you must know that she must be held responsible—there is no escaping that fact. The city burned and there are ramifications for that, even if she..."

_Even if she is not the same woman from before._

The words refuse to cross his tongue. Perhaps it is not so much the period at the end of the sentence as the question mark—Tyrion had heard the ghost of horror and regret in the queen’s voice as she passed the death sentence onto Arya Stark. He has seen the queen grieve, has seen her wrapped up in fury, has seen her grapple with the frustrations of dealing with the Westerosi...but what occurred in King’s Landing had been unprecedented. In the end, did he truly think that his queen, the one he has advised for years now, simply had a moment of unhinged madness, that she would easily throw away her humanity at the cost of thousands of innocent lives? She, who proclaimed that she would not be a queen of ashes?

But if not that, then why? For all the grief and rage and frustration that had been building in the queen since she first touched the wet sands of Dragonstone, there had never been any indication that the queen was anything less than sensible. Yes, she was susceptible to the ambitions and fury of her House but until Varys had mentioned his concern of the queen’s stability—after Jon’s true heritage was revealed—Tyrion had never once doubted that the queen could fall prey to the madness lurking in her blood.

Tyrion rubs at his face, the puzzle of the Dragon Queen burning into headache in his mind. “You said you would not try to justify what she has done. But if you let her live, you must. To the North, to the Vale, to anyone who will question the... _necessity_ of razing the capital. Her rule will never be a peaceful one otherwise, and they _will_ look to you as a better alternative.” At Jon’s continued silence, Tyrion ventures, “And if you don’t kill her, someone else will. Your sister will not be the last to wield a knife meant for the queen’s heart.”

“So it would be an act of mercy?” Again, that flash of something in the other man’s eyes, too fleeting and too incomprehensible for Tyrion to understand. But it is enough that, for some reason, a chill goes through him. He ignores it. 

“You once asked me if I believed you were a liar or a madman,” Tyrion responds slowly, watching Jon’s face carefully for any flicker of emotion that he can judge. “I told you that I believed neither. From my rather unique vantage point, you have proved yourself to be a man of your word, a man of honor. I will not attempt to argue that you made the wrong choice. But I will tell you of the path that lies ahead of you. The North will rise against you, if the queen kills your sister. The Vale will side with the North. The stormlords will no doubt be divided on both sides. The riverlords and the lords of the Reach and the Westerlands--after their losses in these past several years, they will join forces with whomever has the greater chance of victory, regardless of alliances of the past. The queen’s unshakeable allies are Dorne and the Iron Islands and that is not enough to subdue the Seven Kingdoms. The realm will continue to bleed and burn, and the realm has bled and burned enough that they will do anything to stop it. So yes—it would be an act of mercy. For the queen, for your sisters, for the whole damned realm. If you do nothing, you condemn everyone to more misery, more war, more bloodshed. The real war was never to the north. It has always been in the hearts of men.”

Jon sighs. “You told me it was a terrible thing that you were asking of me. That hasn’t changed.”

“No,” Tyrion admits, looking away. “No, it hasn’t. You love her, clearly as much as you love your sisters. But you must be prepared to deal with the consequences of that love.” He pauses and then finally looks back at Jon, curiosity begging him to leave the current topic of conversation behind. But he doggedly cannot, not until he at least has some answers to his questions. “At least tell me why. Why are you throwing it all away?”

The silence descends again. Tyrion watches as Jon clearly weighs his answer, his brow slightly furrowed and his dark eyes shadowed by the weight of the entire world. It is a terrible thing—it will always be a terrible thing—and Tyrion cannot help but pity him the choice. Regardless of what he chooses, he loses something. Tyrion has made similar choices in the past but never to the scale of what he has placed in front of Jon. And still, the young man cannot have chosen love over everything else—not with that stubborn streak of honor that runs through the blood of all of the Starks ( _most_ , he amends, thinking of Sansa and the deft moves she has played in the game of thrones, to place her brother—cousin—on the throne over the queen she despised).

Finally and so quietly that Tyrion has to strain to hear him, Jon says, “You reminded me of the vows I took years ago when I first joined the Night’s Watch. _I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men_.”

Confusion rattles Tyrion’s mind. That’s not the oath. What in the—

Jon’s hand falls to the hilt of Longclaw. “But you forgot the first part of it. A black brother’s watch ends with his death.” He firmly meets Tyrion’s gaze. “And I have already died.’

“So you are no longer beholden to your honor?” Tyrion asks, the disappointment briefly overriding his confusion. _What is this nonsense about fire burning against the cold and a light bringing the dawn? Who are the sleepers?_ “Is this your decision?”

Jon watches him calmly for a moment before shaking his head slightly. “The queen has decided to let you live.”

 _That_ throws him for a loop. Tyrion gapes at Jon. “Pardon?”

“She is letting you live,” Jon repeats, as if he has just announced that the weather today would be mild with a chance of dragonfire. For the first time since their conversation began, Tyrion thinks he sees a brief glimpse of consternation on the man’s face. “She still believes mercy to be a weakness that she cannot show. And burning you after your mistakes would be a mercy. So she is letting you live.”

Tyrion blinks. “And I am to go back to Essos, is it? Join a wandering troupe of mummers and ride a pig?”

Jon lets out a huff of air that might have once been considered a laugh. “No. She is letting you live to advise her.”

As if this day cannot produce any more surprises. Tyrion finds himself—for the second time in as many hours—at a loss for words, and when he finally gathers himself, he cannot quite quell the screaming in his mind that is telling him that someone is playing a grand joke on him. “You can’t be serious. Perhaps she did not quite see when I tore off my brooch that I want nothing to do with advising her. I know it was quite hazy that day from all the smoke from the fires she created.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“We all have choices. I refuse this one.” Tyrion narrows his eyes at Jon. “Are you telling me that you managed to convince her to spare my life but you could not do the same with your sister?”

The look that Jon gives him is actually hurt but Tyrion is too baffled by this entire conversation to really comprehend it. None of this makes sense. Even if the queen has had a change of heart, even if she is regretting what she has done, it is not in her nature to forgive a slight—and Tyrion has made many slights—so easily. Jon says that living is a punishment and yes, perhaps he is right—but the queen cannot honestly expect Tyrion to advise her with a clear head after everything that has happened. Every bit of advice he gives for her decisions will be tinged with the knowledge that she murdered hundreds of innocents in a fit of passionate rage.

No, no—none of this can be right.

“Is she making me her Hand again?” Tyrion asks bitterly. “Is that why you brought me here?” Jon shakes his head. “Then why? You could have simply told me of this...news in my prison.”

Jon doesn’t answer him. Instead, he strides past Tyrion towards the door, briefly rapping his knuckles against it. The two Unsullied guards from before shove the door open, their expressions surly and suspicious when they land on Tyrion. Tyrion absently wonders if they understand that their beloved queen is letting him live. He almost doesn’t catch Jon’s next words. “She wants to see you.”

 _And I don’t want to see her_ , Tyrion thinks but there is only so much a man of his stature can do when being prodded along by spears and men much taller and heavier than him. They descend the stairs of the tower, once again picking through the rubble and debris that seems to have grown in the brief span of time they were in the room. He stumbles more than once and one of the Unsullied is always there to jostle him along by shoving the butt of his spear into Tyrion’s lower back. He starts to resent it after the sixth time.

They wind their way through the maze of destroyed halls at a speed that is less than desirable for Tyrion and he is starting to curse everyone he has ever encountered from the moment he first took a breath in this world when he realizes where they are headed.

The map room’s intricate and immense map of Westeros is hidden beneath a heavy layer of ash, dust, and rubble. Tyrion briefly thinks he sees something human-shaped propped up against a dark corner but he averts his eyes before he can confirm. A handful of Dothraki are peppered throughout the room, and the gray light of day—it will be gray forever now, choking and cloying and filled with death—filters down onto the broken landscape of Westeros. 

Fitting, Tyrion thinks, before he catches sight of the queen on the far side of the room. She is wearing a white dress that has faded to gray along the hem as it gathers up the soot of the destroyed Keep. Her pale hair is unbound and cascades down her back in waves--who is there now to keep it in those beautifully intricate braids--as she paces back and forth over what Tyrion assumes what had once been the North. There is something symbolic in that, he supposes.

Jon has come to a halt next to him and Tyrion can see the concern mar his brow, the first empathetic emotion he has seen cross the young man’s face. It stings. “Dany...what is it?”

The queen stops her pacing and turns towards them both, and Tyrion can see the anger and the vexation and the---no, is that fear in her eyes? She looks from Jon to Tyrion and then back again and he sees the effort it takes for her to school her expression into something remote. There is something here, something impossibly bigger than all of them, and suddenly the screaming in Tyrion's head reaches a fever pitch. Even before the queen opens her mouth, Tyrion knows that there will be no going back, not anymore.

_And a chain and a keep are nothing, compared to a woman’s kiss…_

“It’s your sister...she's gone.”

And they are falling into the chasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Wolf Girl.


	16. The Wolf Girl

The room smells of mildew and smoke, and the darkness that permeates it would induce a feeling of panic in most people. There is the barest sliver of light—which is truly just slightly lighter darkness—from where the door meets its frame, somewhat off-kilter from the force of the attack that has rattled the Red Keep to its very foundation. Hours or days or lifetimes ago, she had run her fingers along the splinter of light, a thoughtful frown on her face, but now she sits cross-legged, in the darkness, watching the door dispassionately.

Anyone else with an execution hanging over their head may have spent the night (day? Arya is unsure how much time has passed since the Unsullied shoved her in here) praying or sobbing or cursing the gods or trying to figure out a means of escape. But other than the mild curiosity with the light earlier, Arya does none of it. She has been sitting on the floor now for hours (maybe), feeling rather naked without Needle by her side but nonetheless the outer picture of serenity and acceptance.

She hasn’t accepted it.

For the past few hours (or days), Arya has been trying to make sense of everything that has happened. The city falling, even in the chaos that was her frantic flight through crumbling buildings, is still clear in her mind. So is her brief talk with Jon after the queen’s crazed speech to her masses of devoted soldiers. She remembers that strange and random pull to the godswood, her simmering anger and frustration. But it is her fight with the queen’s master of war where everything starts to get muddled.

Arya had trained for nearly two years at the House of Black and White under the tutelage of the man whom she still calls Jaqen. Against an Unsullied, no matter what his rank, she should have prevailed. And she remembers stabbing and slashing at him in an almost bored dance of death, her old dancing lessons with Syrio and her battles with the waif and her time spent with warrior after warrior after warrior making her sure on her feet. Needle had sung in her hand until it was crimson with the blood of the man who had single-mindedly killed the defeated, who had turned a blind eye to the civilians gasping their last, charred and broken and gone.

But then the wolves howled.

Sitting in the darkness now, Arya frowns again, remembering the pain. Surely it was nothing like the deadly cold grip of the Night King’s fingers wrapped around her neck ( _blue eyes and cold, crushing her windpipe, death and darkness and nothingness_ ) but it burned nonetheless. And she still has no idea where it came from. She remembers stumbling, remembers gasping as if Grey Worm had shoved his spear straight through her skull, the scream of wolves and winter winds and something terrible and dark and ominous reaching into the very being of her, crushing her, choking her…

Did she fight back when Grey Worm saw the opening, saw her fall? She can’t remember. She remembers pain and then darkness. And then, afterwards, she only recalls waking up in a storage room to the thoughtful expression of Tyrion Lannister and then...and then...

She closes her eyes.

Jon.

Her beloved older brother. The sibling ( _cousin_ , whispers a cruel voice in the back of her mind) she had been closest to growing up, the other one who had never quite fit in. He had been her protector and her confidant, with his quiet smiles and introspective advice after she had gotten into another row with Sansa. She had run to him nearly as much as she had Father. He always understood. He was always there for her.

She can’t believe that he would choose the queen over them. Over _her_.

But she had been taught how to detect a lie while at the House of Black and White, hadn’t she? Even if she has abused every other lesson Jaqen and the waif taught her, that is the one that has stuck with her. She may have the ability to change faces on a whim—a fact that still unnerves Sansa, she knows—but the ability to detect a lie has been ringing in her head for months and months now. And when she stood before the throne and the queen told her what Tyrion had done and the choice that Jon had made, it had been all Arya could do to keep her face cold even as she accused the queen of being a liar, even as she felt the lie in the accusation scald her own tongue. The queen’s response had sounded like angry heartbreak, a woman on the edge of damnation. It had been the little girl in her, the part of her she thought long dead and gone, screaming and beating her fists against the wall— _you’re wrong, that’s not him, that’s not Jon, Jon would never_ …

But if she is no longer the little girl with the scabbed knees and the unruly hair and the messy needlework, is Jon still the big brother who always looked out for his little sister?

Her eyes still closed and the faint whisper of a memory of howling wolves tickling the back of her mind, Arya places her hands on the cold and dusty floor to ground herself. She is not sure what she had expected when she finally came back to Winterfell. She is not sure what she expected when Jon had come back with all the forces of the east at his heels. Perhaps there was a part of her, the little girl longing for home and the nostalgic days of old, that wanted to go back to those days, safe and sound and warm under the protective eye of Ned Stark.

_I killed the Night King and I still want my older brother to protect me._

They can’t go back, she realizes. She has known this even when she left Braavos for Winterfell, even when she was longing for home. She has known this ever since she saw the cold and collected woman Sansa had grown into, the emotionless god that still wore the face of her youngest living brother. 

And Jon?

_How did you survive a knife through the heart?_

_I didn’t._

Beric is the only other person she knows who had come back from the dead and who didn’t turn into one of the Night King's mindless growling masses. She may still harbor some resentment towards the Brotherhood over their treatment of Gendry but she also knows that the Lightning Lord had saved her, had allowed to land the killing blow to the Night King ( _ice around her throat, death in front of her, Bran sitting silently behind, watching, waiting…_ ). She lit his funeral pyre. He hadn’t screamed that ghastly shriek of the dead.

Jon is...different. She knows this, can’t refute this logic. There is a weariness to him that she had not seen before, a quiet but exhausted strength and confidence that almost made him seem untouchable, the dark-cloaked figure riding next to the white-haired queen. The Red God had breathed fire into his heart, burning it back to life ( _fire and dragons and Targaryens and the whispered word 'cousin' sounds like poison in her mind_ ).

But he’s still her older brother. Ruffling her hair, pulling her into a hug, smiling that shy and self-deprecating smile at her…

 _You told him to make a choice...He chose me_.

 _Liar_ , the part of Arya that’s still stubbornly a little girl hisses. And the woman that girl has grown into...well, she can barely believe it still. Not Jon, with his honor and his morals and his clear sense of right and wrong, a man whom she knows has made hard choices, even at the cost of his own life. He wouldn’t choose the queen, not after what she has done, not after what she has promised to do. He wouldn’t abandon the North or Winterfell or his family.

Arya’s thoughts are still muddled, still screaming in defiance of the words the queen spoke, when she hears voices raised just outside her door. She leaps to her feet, briefly wishing that they hadn’t stolen away Needle, and listens, her body tense and willing and ready. 

_What do we say to the god of death?_

But the door doesn’t open. She can hear muffled voices, speaking in Valyrian, just beyond the thick wood...voices, she notes, that continue to rise in short bursts, as if yelling at someone. Arya frowns, skittering to the side of the door so that if it flings open, she will merely be one of a thousand shadows in a darkened corner of the room. She stills her breath, calming her heart, her fingers wrapping around the ghostly hilt of her sword. Her body may be bruised from her fight with Grey Worm and her face and hair are still a disgusting mix of soot, dirt and dried blood but her heart is already pounding with the promise of a dance, of blood and battle. This is what she has trained for, even with the queen’s words of execution hanging over her like a noose. She has no weapon but she needs no weapon. Not now.

But the door doesn’t open.

Instead she hears another shout and the sounds of a scuffle just beyond the door. She stays crouched in the corner, eyes already accumulated to the dark. There are several solid thumps against the door, hard enough to rattle the door in its frame, and Arya can see the little sliver of light darken with flashes of movement as whatever is occurring outside of the door continues. In the darkness, there is nothing to see except that splinter of light, flashing with shadows. In the darkness, there is nothing to hear except the muffled grunts and the crunching blows against flesh and bone. She hears more words in a tongue she doesn’t understand but has heard so often, repeated like a prayer, over and over again as the thumps slow and slow and slow...

And then there is a gurgling scream.

It is a sound of death. It is a sound of raw fear and pain.

It is a sound Arya has heard before.

She holds her breath.

But now there is only silence.

She edges closer to the door, still staying cloaked in the shadows of the room. She only hears her own breathing now, soft and steady, just as Syrio had taught her all those years ago. The sliver of light is half-dampened now and she reaches towards, brushing her fingers against the fine crack between the door and its frame. It is not big enough to permit a breeze to squeeze through but even still she can feel something like ice on the opposite side of the door. She frowns, continuing to move her fingers cautiously over the door itself, fingertips dancing along uneven grooves and dirt.

The door creaks open.

Arya jump backwards into the shadows so quickly that she almost isn’t aware she has moved herself. One moment, the door is against her hand and the next she is crouched once again in the darkness, squinting at the gray light pouring in through the barely ajar door, shadows still spilling the floor itself. No one enters but the door remains open. Arya listens--for breathing, for footsteps, for the rattle of keys.

Nothing.

This is almost like a memory, though it doesn’t quite fit. The dead in Winterfell, the dead in her home...but the dead are gone. She has made sure of that.

But the door is open.

She creeps slowly towards it, watching the shaft of gray light penetrate the darkness of the room. Anyone else would be blind. Anyone else would have made a run for it. But Arya is not anyone. Sometimes she is no one but other times she is this. She approaches the shaft of light from the side before slowly, slowly, slowly, moving into the dimness. She has never missed the presence of Needle more strongly than she has now. She can dodge out of their hands if this is a trap, run faster than any of them, but a weapon would be nice.

She opens the door a little more...and stops. The shaft of gray light, widening at her touch, brings with it a bitter chill that burns her fingers. And what she had mistaken for shadows on the floor are not shadows at all but blood already congealing in the cold. 

King’s Landing had been destroyed by _fire_.

She slips out of the door, feeling the stickiness of the blood beneath her boots. She stares down at the bodies of the four Unsullied guards crumpled around the door. One of them has his own spear jutting from his mouth where it had been forcibly shoved through the back of his head. Another lies face down almost at her feet and from the blood pooling around his neck, she can only assumed his throat had been opened from ear to ear in a gruesome gaping smile. The third guard half-sits slumped against the wall, his final desperate attempts to shove his entrails back into his stomach shown in his blood-covered hands, the contents of his torso spilling onto the floor and his thighs like wet black worms.

The last one though…

The last one stares up at her, eyes wide and empty. He too should be face down but his head has been twisted completely around in a gruesome shattering of his spine, his jaw wide in a scream even in death, nothing beyond the darkness except blood and blood and blood. 

No man could do this.

Arya looks down the hall. Nothing. No one. There is only gray light and the burned corpse of one of the unfortunate souls who had perished in the conflagration that had consumed the capital. Even the torches have gone out in the cold. She quickly looks down at the mangled bodies again, ignoring the coppery scent of blood and the more overwhelming stench of loosened bowels, and crouches down, scavenging the bodies for Needle. They wouldn’t have taken it to the queen, would they? The Unsullied spears are too unwieldy for her to handle…

Ah, there. She grabs her sword belt from around the waist of the disemboweled eunuch and quickly cinches it around her own waist. For good measure, she roots for a dagger and a smaller knife on his person, tucking the knife into her boot and the dagger into her coat. None of the corpses carry money but she is not surprised by that--what would they have needed coppers and stags for, when their illustrious queen provided them with bodies for their bloodlust? Her eyes quickly dart back over to the guard whose head is turned the wrong way.

A feeling of wrongness sluices down her back.

 _No, not now._ Arya takes in a breath to steady herself and then gazes down the hall. She remembers the maze that had led them down this hall and the winding halls above. She has escaped from King’s Landing before. She can surely do it again, though this time she does not have Yoren or Gendry or Hot Pie or Lommy with her. She skirts past the corpses of the Unsullied guards and the burned body, suppressing a shiver at the tendrils of ice that slip down her spine. Her feet leave sticky footprints on the ground, a fact that bothers her for several moments before the damning evidence eventually falls away into dust and shadows.

She glances back over her shoulder only once. Is there a figure standing at the darkened end of the hall, watching her, moving towards her? She blinks. It’s gone.

She doesn’t wait to see if it reappears.

Silently clambering up the staircase and keeping a bloodless grip on Needle, Arya wonders if she should find Jon. It feels like a buzzing decision in the back of her head, as if her mind is full of icy bees, stinging her and urging her towards a decision. Maybe there is more to the story than his queen spoke of in the throne room. Maybe the decision wasn’t entirely his own. Maybe maybe maybe...

 _Jon, where are you_ , she thinks desperately as she races down an empty corridor. Can she leave him here, with everything she knows, with everything the queen knows? 

_You’ll always be a threat to her._

She can’t abandon him. She won’t. Jon is her brother. He might be wrong, he might not be thinking clearly, he might...he might...

She skids to a halt, barely around the corner of another torch-lit hallway. There are voices farther down that she can barely make out, the mere impression of a conversation. She listens and listens—no, this is not Valyrian but the Common Tongue and she can catch perhaps only one word in seven. It doesn’t sound important, whatever it is. But she knows those surly vowels and those rumbling cadences, knows the rough-spun accents of the North. She places her hand against the roughened walls of the Keep and then darts towards the men speaking, keeping to the shadows. She doesn’t need to alert them to her presence but she does need to know...she needs to know...

“...back soon,” one of the men is saying. “My wife will have my head if I stay here.”

His companion barks out a laugh. “Nothing here anyway. You can send your boy down in a few years, I take it. Might be something to behold once they clean it up. But you heard the stories from Garrett. It was always a shithole down here if you weren’t one of the royal fuckers. Heard it was mildly better when Robert was king but that feels like a fucking lifetime ago.”

“Well, they’re all dead now anyway. Now it’s just men with no balls and Eastern savages and that Targaryen woman with her dragons.”

“Aye.” A pause. “I heard Willem was staying. He must think he can get out of owing me my money if he stays here in the south.”

“He always was a sore loser.”

The rest of the conversation dwindles into golden shadows and echoes until it becomes smothered in silence. Arya doesn’t keep following them. She leans against the wall, glancing back in the direction she had come from. There are no shadowed figures, dancing on the edge of sight and memory, just beyond. But she cannot go back, where the icy coldness and her cell sit unoccupied ( _a man with his head twisted round, a burned corpse, a gutted soldier...death and cold and darkness…_ ).

How many northmen will remain here? The Dothraki and the Unsullied are numerous but their numbers had been dealt ferocious blows in the battle at Winterfell. If the queen has Jon, if Jon did not make his choice willingly, will the northmen tear down the queen’s barricade of armed bodies to make a stand?

_That Targaryen woman with her dragons..._

Arya clenches her jaw. No. No, that can’t be right. The corpse dragon had died (again) in Winterfell. There had only been one dragon above King’s Landing to deliver the fatal inferno that engulfed the city. Even if she thinks she had heard two dragon cries while imprisoned with Tyrion, while nearing the throne room, she tells herself that it is merely an echo, the Red Keep’s last secrets screaming as it fell to ruins all around them.

She is torn.

If she seeks out Jon, she risks the chance of being found. She is not afraid of death but she knows that her sudden appearance, unshackled and free, will cause the queen to look at her brother in suspicion, perhaps even to pass the same death sentence on to him. If she flees, the same will happen--who else would free her except Jon? But Jon had not been outside her cell. The only ones outside in the hallway were queensmen, loyal to her and her alone. The queen won’t know that though. She’ll look at Jon like another traitor (what has even happened to Tyrion Lannister? They sent them in different directions after the throne room and maybe his body is already rotting outside of the Keep ahead of hers).

No, she has to find him. It’s _Jon_. She can’t do anything less than that. She has to at least know.

It takes her the better part of two hours to navigate her way up through the ruined lower levels of the castle. She avoids the Unsullied and Dothraki roaming about but, out of caution, she does the same for the northmen. She does not know how long she has until more guards come looking for her or to relieve the guards who are now decaying in the cold hall. It could be minutes. It could be a day. She can feel the time pressing down on her shoulders like a boulder.

Where can Jon possibly be?

She pauses at a window. Night has fallen onto King’s Landing though Arya doesn’t know how much time has passed since the city fell. Flames made from wildfire and dragonfire still smolder far beneath her, across the spread of the city. The acidic smells of smoke and death waft up through the window, and though she cannot see the smoke, she can sense it rising from the carcass of the city. It briefly reminds her of Winterfell--the burning bodies of thousands and thousands in the days after the long night. But this is different. This is the work of madness, of hate and fury. What befell Winterfell...

Arya frowns, remembering Bran’s words.

_He wants to erase this world._

She doesn’t speak Valyrian but she remembers the enraptured look on the queen’s face when she spoke to the raucous crowds of Dothraki and stone-faced Unsullied. 

_Erase the world..._

She recalls the wolves howling in her head, the blasting pain and her vision whiting out with snow, snow everywhere, and the ice of an eternal winter... _winter is coming_...

She takes in a breath, feeling the stench of the blasted city sting her throat, and turns away from the window.

_Valar morghulis._

There is something here that she does not understand and she knows it. Something in ice and fire, in words promised and words left unspoken. In death and winter, in myth and legend, in the gods and the stories and all of time, the words of their Houses written on their skin like a brand. Arya has followed in the steps of the Many-Faced God for ages now but there are also the old gods and the Seven and Beric’s Red God and all of them intertwined, somehow, through blood and salt and smoke. Arya feels as if, by plunging the dagger into the Night King, she has killed them all. But there are those words. Bran’s words.

_He wants to erase this world._

She begins her search again, something fluttering in her chest that she dares not identify. 

When she does find Jon, it is almost entirely by accident. Many parts of the Red Keep have fallen into nothingness, crumbled towers and halls choked with debris, stairways that only lead upwards to black sky and stairways that drop into black nothingness and simmering fires. She cannot recall how many of these rooms and halls she had darted through seven years ago, when the Lannister soldiers had come to keep her prisoner, after her father’s supposed ( _liar liar liar_ ) treason. But the room she finally stumbles across is one she had never seen in her time living in the Red Keep, a room that may have a map of Westeros etched on the floor but it is hidden beneath ash and rubble.

Jon is there. But he is not alone.

She can hear him speaking to someone in hushed tones, someone whom she cannot see from her vantage point. The open sky, seen through the shattered ceiling, has cloaked him in shadows and smoke, the torchlight from a nearby sconce dancing off his unbound black curls (and he looks so much like he did seven years ago, Arya almost cries out and flings herself out of the shadows towards him). There are a couple of Unsullied soldiers here too but she pays them no mind.

Instead she presses herself into the shadows, willing herself not to be seen or heard.

And listens.

“It’s not a good look,” she hears Jon’s companion say and hears in his voice the same Flea Bottom accent that Gendry has. The Onion Knight. Jon starts to protest but the other man interrupts him. “You’ll be getting an earful from more than me. I’m just here to point it out, not to pass judgment.”

She hears Jon let out a humorless laugh. “Neither of us have many advisers left. I appreciate your caution.”

“You’ve spoken with her then?” 

“...in a manner.”

“‘In a manner,’” comes the dry response. “My son used to say that.” She can hear the sigh even from her hiding space but misses the next few words. She edges closer in the darkness to catch the tail end of a sentence. “...best decision. Do you know what you’re doing, lad? You know what this will do to any semblance of an alliance.”

“I’m sure I’ll be reminded of it,” Jon replies. She can now see the Onion Knight standing just beyond. Jon’s back is turned towards him so that both men are only slightly turned away from Arya. She wants Jon to look over into these shadows, to catch his eye, to reassure herself that he’s okay. But he doesn’t and so she waits and continues to listen. He looks troubled. “I’ll speak with her when she is awake.”

“...aye, I suppose that is the most you can do,” the Onion Knight says slowly. “Though, if I may be so blunt...”

“Don’t stop now on my account.

“...I don’t think you’d be pacing these halls instead of in bed with her if you weren’t worried.”

She doesn’t hear Jon’s answer. There is a roar in her ears now, nearly as loud as the howling wolves from hours and days and years ago. It feels like it is clawing at her, ripping the world apart in shrieking bloodied strips. She takes one silent step back. And then another. And another. And then, at some point, she is running. Through the halls and down the stairs and out into the darkness of the courtyards, running and running and running.

He hadn’t sent anyone for her. He hadn’t tried to free her. He had been with the queen.

He had chosen the queen.

 _Stupid stupid stupid_ , Arya thinks, the little girl in her, the one who always admired and loved the big brother who shielded and chided in her, screaming in betrayed rage. There must be some reason, some cause. Jon is a good man. An honorable man. She knows there is nothing in him that would stand for the murder of innocent men, women, and children. But he did. But it doesn't make _sense_. But he...it’s _Jon_. Jon, who is more like Father than any of them, who does what’s right, who _always_ does what’s right, even when it was stupid and foolhardy and ill-advised…

 _I have to get back to Winterfell_ , Arya thinks, dazed. But even as the idea passes through her mind, she knows that she can’t. Clearly that would be the first place the queen (and Jon, _no no no, Jon, why, what are you doing_ ) will look for her. And she can find the fastest horse in Westeros but even that cannot outpace a dragon. No, she cannot return directly to Winterfell, even though she needs her home. She needs her family.

 _Jon_.

To Storm’s End then, to Gendry? But she remembers her parting words to him, the cool dismissal of his feelings towards her. Can she show up there and not expect a muddled sense of duty to her? He is a lord now, sworn to the queen who gave him his title and the Baratheon bloodright. If she appears at the castle, she will only being wrath down on his head. And gods know how many innocent people, already the skeleton of Stannis’s mad campaign for the crown, would perish in an attack?

Back to Essos? There is nothing for her there. The Faceless Men will have their due. She had killed the waif, pointed a sword at Jaqen’s heart, broken the codes of killing for personal gain and out of hurt and anger. They let her go once. She doubts they will again.

So where, where, _where_? Will Bran know what has happened here? Will he tell Sansa, with so many of their forces still encamped around and within King’s Landing? What will the queen do once she finds out Arya has been set free (by some mysterious force, not Jon, Jon hadn’t, Jon _hadn’t_ )? Arya has to run, has to keep running, but she needs to make sure...has to get word...

And then she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar Targaryen should have looked like Henry Cavill from The Witcher, don't @ me
> 
> Next chapter: The Emissary, for the last of our King's Landing's quartet.


	17. The Emissary

The Red Keep is a maze that Davos continues to get lost in, even if much of it is nothing but a ruin now. 

It is not so much planned as coincidence when he stumbled across Jon deep in thought in the map room earlier, the former Lord Commander looking remarkably, almost achingly, young, a troubled expression grooved onto his face. It had not taken long for Davos to pry out of him the reason for his pacing so late into the night. It bothered him then and it still bothers him now, as he ventures down a hall that will hopefully lead him to where the northerners are berthing.

 _Aye and you gave him sound advice, did you_ , the former smuggler chides himself, frowning off into the darkness and wondering if there is rubble blocking his path ahead. He does not like the idea of the queen passing a judgment of execution on the Stark girl—not for any personal feelings of affection for the girl herself but for the diplomatic nightmare that it will turn out to be. The northerners know who dealt the killing blow to the Night King and, having suffered casualties nearly on par with that of the riverlanders over the past several years, will not let her death go unavenged. There will be more bloodshed in the streets of King’s Landing and, if Bran Stark has already told his sister the goings-on of the capital, there will certainly be hell coming in from all directions when Sansa Stark inevitably rouses the rest of Westeros against the newly-installed dragon queen.

The hall turns out not to be completely closed off and at the turn Davos is able to reorient himself and stride confidently down towards where he can hear the faint murmur of men still awake at this time of night. 

_The night is dark and full of terrors, Davos Seaworth, and only fire will burn them all away._

Over the past few days, his mind keeps coming back to the Red Woman’s words and her prophecy about a promised prince. He told Jon that he hates to think that she may have been right, that perhaps the night had not truly been winter personified. Or maybe he has spent too long with the houses of ice and fire too long and can no longer tell the difference. He thinks perhaps too he is getting far too old for any of this prophetic nonsense, in the eternal wars and the battles for power.

But he also can’t simply walk away now.

Davos rubs at his beard with a tired sigh. No, no—with the exhaustion that he feels has settled permanently in his bones, it is more likely that the past few days have simply caught up to him and have made him daft with fatigue. He has been fighting for what feels like a lifetime now and when he is not fighting, he is wading into muddy political waters in conversations with Jon and Tyrion. 

_He may have the blood of a Targaryen but he was raised by Ned Stark._

_That_ particular memory he frowns at, trying to quell the uneasy feeling that tickles the nape of his neck. There has been an abundance of these types of feelings in the past few hectic days, even as it feels that the world is holding its breath in the aftermath of the destruction wrought on the capital by the dragon queen. And they’ve only grown stronger in lieu of Jon’s almost erratic behavior. He remembers the chill of unimaginable archaic _power_ he felt in the throne room when he had come across the Mother of Dragons and the former King in the North, a chill that has not since abated. 

And he did not get where he is now by ignoring those pinpricks of intuition and warning.

He is not sure what comes next, not sure if he even wants to be there for it. He has longed for home for so long that it has become a dull ache in his heart—he has been on this journey since King Robert died and that thrice-damned letter from Eddard Stark arrived in Stannis’s hands. And now...

And now.

If only everything was as simple as the War of the Five Kings.

Davos eventually manages to find his way back to the quarters of the northmen, many of whom are already roused and grumbling. He doesn’t see any blank-eyed or terrified servant girls among the lot of them, a welcome reprieve from the handful of scenes he had come across the previous evening. Many of the castle’s servants had fled to Maegor’s Holdfast during the siege but Davos has seen the hollowed out shell the once formidable building has since become (green flames still dance in his memory of the ruins, the blame most likely Cersei’s for this particular aspect of destruction but he has seen enough corpses over the past few days to no longer care whose shoulders the fault placed upon). For the few dozen who had found safer nooks and crannies, they had been spared a crushing fiery death as the Red Keep came crumbling down around them...only to be subjected to the hot-blooded lusts and rages of the northerners. Davos put a stop to the few desperate scenes he had come across but he doesn’t know how many more he never even saw. He is no stranger to the terrible things that happen during war (a fresh grief here still, good gods, _Shireen_ ) but it never stops being disturbing, the lengths men will go to once they became drunk on victory and power.

He finds an empty cot in an equally empty room near the end of a quiet hall and, after only briefly wondering what poor sod this room had belonged to before the siege, collapses into it, not bothering even to undress. He is asleep before his head can even settle against the surface of the bed.

His dreams are muddled and gray, ghosts of the past and present blurred together into indecipherable shapes in his mind. Perhaps there are dragons in his dreams. Perhaps there are dead men walking, glowing eyes as blue as the stars. But the images are fleeting, flying from his hands—both crippled and not—faster than he can grasp them. And throughout all of it, and the unease that accompanies the fogginess, there is a voice he recognizes, a voice he knows from so long ago and had followed into the chaos.

_A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad the good_ _...hard truths cut both ways, Ser Davos_ _...but when you see the truth when it’s right there in front of you as real as these iron bars..._

_What do you believe?_

_I don’t know anymore_ , Davos thinks desperately as ice creeps into his mind, the whispers of the north and the blazing white power of winter whispering in his ear, _listen listen listen_ …

_The night is dark and full of terrors._

_The darkness will devour them all, she says._

_What do you believe?_

Winter gales and howling wolves and screaming dragons, red fire and blue ice, the world crumbling into green darkness, ancient golden eyes peering maliciously out from forgotten times...

 _No_.

And he awakens...but he is no longer in the empty cot in the empty room down a quiet hall.

The rookery smells like smoke, spilled ink, and gods only know how much bird shit. Ebony feathers drift down from somewhere overhead but the rafters and cages are bare of any winged creatures except for one surly-looking beast in a darkened corner above, warbling in irritation at the man down below. Gray morning light filters through windows and onto the floor, strewn with rushes, feathers, ink, and ash, a puzzlework of silence and solitude and secrets.

And Davos, for the life of him, cannot recall as to how he got here.

“What the bloody…?” He looks around the rookery in confusion as if still in a dream, feeling the barest twinge of pain at his temples as he tries to orient himself and fails miserably. A brief glance down reveals a dance of steps written into the dust and ashes though it is less than helpful—a brief stop at a cage here, a pair of wandering footprints there. It all leads to him standing here, at the edge of the doorway, completely baffled as to his sudden appearance in the rookery, a place that Davos is certain he has never visited nor even noticed during their short respite in the Red Keep.

Squinting up at the cold washed out light of the morning ( _when did it become morning,_ he wonders absently), Davos takes a few uneasy steps backwards out of the rookery. He has never been known to walk in his sleep...though he doubts he has ever been as rundown as he is now. He did not think that with the exhaustion weighing heavily on his bones as it has been he would’ve had the energy to do anything except sleep.

And yet here he stands, the rookery in all of its dusty glory before him.

He rubs at his beard and then at his eyes, trying to make sense out of any of it and failing. His head continues to throb—perhaps he banged his head while walking about in his sleep—and he realizes, a bit sourly, that he has zero idea how to find his way back to the sleeping quarters of the northerners from here. A quick glance up at the windows of the rookery reveal that is still, impossibly, snowing—and snowing heavily at that. It seems that even destroying the very armies of winter itself still did not cause the seasons to cease to exist.

Davos struggles to retrace his steps back through the Red Keep, wishing that perhaps some dust or ash had fallen here so that he might at least follow his own footsteps. There is nothing of the sort however and it is only the faint sound of muted conversation that eventually leads him in one direction over the other, though it is almost like chasing a ghost.

(Gods know how many ghosts haunt these halls now.)

He strides down a corridor, following the voices (that he notices are rising in agitation) to a hall that looks at least somewhat familiar. However, a pair of Unsullied guards—they _do_ seem to be everywhere, he thinks wearily—block his path from going much farther.

“You have no word with the queen.”

Davos frowns, listening. Yes, one of the voices is unmistakably that of Daenerys Targaryen. And the other...ah yes. The northern brogue is unmistakable. But there is a third…? The voices continue to ebb and flow like an agitated tide and Davos takes an unconscious step forward...only to find himself on the receiving end of a pair of very sharp spears. He holds up his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture, something, he realizes, he has done more than once over the past few days since the city fell.

“I would speak with the Warden of the North.”

The spears don’t waver. Obviously this is not an acceptable answer. He glances at the hall and the set of doors just behind the guards. He doubts that it is his place to interrupt Jon or the queen, especially considering his conversation with the former last night (he is assuming it is only last night still, time has become a strangely nebulous thing in his mind). But there is suddenly a part of him that is seemingly, oddly, pulling him towards that room just beyond, more than curiosity or the conversation can explain.

But there are those spears.

He shifts slightly and finds himself being prodded in the belly by one of those spears.

“You go!”

Davos purses his lips and finally, reluctantly, gives a short nod of his head before turning to walk away. But before he is even a half dozen steps in the opposite direction, a voice calls out, “Davos.”

He stops, glancing over his shoulder. Jon has opened the door, standing halfway in and out of the room, confusion woven on his brow. He turns his head slightly, murmuring something just behind him before nodding in agreement and gesturing for Davos to approach. Davos eyes the two Unsullied guards warily but sidles past them, feeling their dark disapproving eyes on his retreating back. 

As he approaches Jon, he notices the young man’s wan appearance—clearly he has gotten less sleep than Davos has. While Davos admires the man for his unparalleled prowess on the battlefield and as a leader and a commander in his own right, he cannot help the fatherly sense of exasperation that comes across him in that moment. He follows Jon into the room, biting back a comment about his appearance...and it does not matter anyway as the words die on his tongue the moment he sees the room’s occupants.

The room itself is an antechamber to the map room that has Westeros and the surrounding seas painted on the floor, though a large portion of it is still hidden beneath rubble and ash. Pale sunlight and a heavy snowfall dance down from above, covering the map and its ruined quilt of cities and castles in splotches of light and ice. But that is not what attracts Davos’s attention. No, it is the presence of one dwarf, dirty and tired-looking, standing next to the queen and giving both Davos and Jon a quizzical look.

Davos feels as if he should be one wearing that expression.

He nods his head respectfully at the queen, seeing with relief (confusion?) that the madness that had twisted her beautiful features barely a handful of days ago has not returned. But there is something else there, quite possibly the reason of the raised voices he had heard, that unsettles him. “Your Grace.”

The queen barely returns his nod of acknowledgment. Instead she fixes Jon with a look. “Do you trust that it wasn’t _him_?”

It takes a moment for Davos to realize she is speaking about him. Even as Jon nods quietly and Tyrion gives him an askance look, he cannot help but ask, “Begging your pardons but... _what_ wasn’t me?”

Tyrion watches Jon and the queen for a moment longer before turning to Davos, slowly replying, “It seems as if my fellow prisoner has managed to escape the Red Keep.”

“We found the bodies of her guards outside her cell,” Jon adds on. He looks disquieted as he glances at the queen. “She wouldn’t have done what we saw. Arya’s strong, a fighter. But those men were butchered by someone much stronger than my sister.”

At Davos’s baffled look, Tyrion expounds, “One was skewered with his own spear. Another’s throat slashed open. One more eviscerated with extreme prejudice. And the last..." Davos sees the small man turn a few shades paler and greener, swallowing hard before clearing his throat. “And the last...well. He was also quite clearly dead.”

“None of the Unsullied or Dothraki would betray me,” the queen says, frustration evident on her face. “ _You_ wouldn’t betray me, Jon. The cityfolk..." Davos can see the words strangle her, sees the brief flash of something impossible to describe in her eyes. She continues, as if with some difficulty, “The cityfolk don’t know she was here. So who? Who would kill my men and free her? One of your men? A northerner?”

Jon looks away. “I don’t know.”

Davos, who has been in the former Lord Commander’s presence long enough, knows when the young man is lying. Not that it is particularly hard to figure out—Jon Snow is notoriously honorable, unable to tell a lie to save his life even in the best of circumstances. And for all that Davos can see on his face, despite the fact that no one would have a better reason to free Arya Stark than him, he can see that he is telling the truth.

Silence falls between the four of them as the queen lets out a breath, turning to walk a few feet away, her arms wrapped around her middle as if it is the only way she is holding herself together. Even Tyrion for once seems to have nothing to say, though Davos wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that he has very much not been executed, as the queen had promised. Perhaps while Davos had been asleep (or not asleep, he thinks, flashing back to the rookery) Jon had managed to speak to the queen but had only convinced her to pardon Tyrion. He had told him of Arya’s planned attempt to kill the queen and Davos assumes that perhaps that is a more unforgivable offense than every single thing Tyrion has done.

It is something he will need to speak to the small man about, perhaps in a less charged moment. Right now, the tension is so thick in the air, Davos could choke on it. He glances from one tense figure to the next before taking a step forward, hands clasped behind his back. 

_These young people have no idea what sort of world they’ve created_. 

“If I may…?” Davos says and Jon wearily gestures for him to continue. He nods, letting out a sigh. “Regardless of where the girl is, you’ll have to assume that the North already knows. Between that and...the rest of it, this will end badly if you let it. Now I don’t like the idea of fighting any more than we already have and I doubt the kingdom will like it much either. There’s already too much blood shed, too much time gone in wars. The people won’t readily flock to another one.”

“Then Winterfell must heel,” the queen replies sharply, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. “I will not tolerate them or anyone balking at my rule.”

Davos takes in a breath, quickly prays to whatever gods are still watching over him even as he continuously dives balls deep into stupidly suicidal situations, and says, “Then that makes you a tyrant, Your Grace.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jon frown and Tyrion grimace. The queen has turned her full attention on him, her luminous blue eyes wide in affronted anger. “A _tyrant_? Sansa Stark has made it her goal to unseat me from the throne before I even stepped foot in King’s Landing. She conspired with my Hand to spread rumors, to tear away everything I have ever dreamed of and worked for.” She turns a hurt, furious glare briefly onto Jon before flickering her eyes back to Davos, the fiery weight of her House burning across her face. “And you expect me to just...let the North be? To let Sansa Stark dictate my actions by holding the North and the Vale hostage to my rule?”

 _But you will hold the entire realm hostage for peace over one woman_ , Davos thinks. But thinking that he would also like to postpone his imminent death as long as possible, he says, “If you fight everyone and anyone who disagrees with you or is unhappy with the way you do things, you’ll spend your entire rule putting out fires and not actually ruling. The realm wants— _needs—_ peace right now. And you cannot fight the North when they know what you will do the moment you make the decision. If you want a hope of holding the realm together, you need to unite on a common cause.”

The queen narrows her eyes at him. “I have tried to make peace with House Stark. They have betrayed my trust.”

“Not all of House Stark,” Davos says after a brief pause, giving Jon a significant look. He doesn’t like the idea of pitting the Stark sisters against their brother—even if he is not truly their brother by blood. He hates even more putting Jon in this position, so clearly the fulcrum between the north and the south. But if Jon has made his decision and the queen has made hers and the North is standing poised with the knowledge of an eldritch being with eyes and ears everywhere and a stubborn northern lady with a neck stiffer than the Wall...well, Davos can only work with this and advise caution against the dumbest fucking decisions they can make.

“I told you once,” Davos says, directing his words to Tyrion, “that northerners are stubborn as goats. They’re loyal to those who have proven themselves. Sansa holds power in Winterfell now because Jon left it in her care. But the people named _him_ the King in the North."

He watches a shrewd look pass over Tyrion’s face, knowing that the other man is recalling the conversation in those days before the Night King and his army attacked Winterfell. The dwarf looks over at Jon but says nothing, though his eyes narrow into a thoughtful expression. Meanwhile, Jon and the queen exchange a loaded look that he simply does not have the heart to decipher. One thousand and one lifetimes have passed since that fateful day on Dragonstone, when said King in the North and the Mother of Dragons finally met face-to-face. Lifetimes and death itself, the world falling into the abyss despite (or perhaps because of) their love. There are no words he can say to dispel that ineffable something between them, to weave a different tale, but perhaps there is an easier ending, a softer path than the one of destruction that seems to follow both of them in their wake like a shadow.

Their gaze is held for a moment longer between the two of them and then finally the queen looks away, closing her eyes. “You will have us pursue a path of peace.”

“It’s not a path of weakness, Your Grace,” Davos reminds her. 

“Do you think Arya Stark will stop trying to bury a dagger in my heart simply because we sue for peace?” the queen replies bitterly. She opens her eyes but once again she is only looking at Jon. “She will not stop trying, Jon. Not until I am dead and you are on the throne. If she cannot accept things as they are, then I have no choice. You _know_ that.”

Jon shakes his head but Davos doesn’t know if he’s disagreeing with her or some silent argument in his own head because he says nothing.

“As of right now,” Davos interrupts, suddenly very tired, “it doesn’t matter. Your sister is gone and gods know how it happened but there is no changing that. The northern army is here in King’s Landing, meaning the only one that Winterfell can send to readily fight is the Vale’s.” He gestures at Jon even as he turns his attention back to the queen. “And the wildlings will only fight for him, not for his sister. What you need is to gather your allies, make your case before Sansa can. Find a reason to convince her not to fight.”

“Sansa will not give up the North that easily,” Tyrion points out. The queen gives him a sour look which Tyrion returns in clear exasperation. “She won’t. You know it, I know it, we all know it. And can you truly blame her? Winterfell and the North were taken away from House Stark for years. The War of the Five Kings began because my twice-damned nephew decided it would be a brilliant idea to lop off Ned Stark’s head. For years, House Stark was torn asunder. The Red Wedding, her own marriage to me and then Ramsay Bolton, the rebellion and then the fight against the dead. As far as Sansa is concerned, she has not gotten her home and her name back simply to hand it over to a new monarch. From her vantage point, no monarch in her lifetime has ever been kind to the North or her family. No one else deserves to have it.”

“It’s not hers to give.”

All heads swivel towards Jon. He looks as though he is struggling with something mightily and Davos can’t help but pity him. It is a damned choice—any argument comes with the words “for the sake of the realm” floating along behind it. Any decision he makes can bring war or peace and it is simply—impossibly—a choice between his younger sisters and a great love. Davos cannot envy him the choice.

Very quietly, Jon repeats, “It’s not hers to give. I don’t know what happened with Arya. I can’t predict what she’ll do. But I know what _we_ can do. Davos is right.”

 _And I hate that I am, lad_. “The Iron Islands declared for you. So did Dorne. You gave Gendry the Baratheon name and so the stormlands are sworn to you too. The North’s military power is here, and the far north’s power is with Jon. The scales are tipped in your favor currently.”

 _If no one has any qualms with you burning the capital._ But even Davos is not so foolhardy as to mention that. 

The queen is quiet for a moment. And then she says, “Ser Davos, you give advice as though you were my Hand.” She cuts a look at Tyrion that absolutely no one misses. “It follows a logic that I missed having.”

“While my continued existence is a remarkable feat,” Tyrion replies dryly, “need I remind you that you were the one who decided that I should live?”

Ah, so it _had_ been the queen’s idea to apparently pardon her former Hand. That is certainly an interesting twist to things—even more so, as Davos can see that it seems that neither the queen nor Tyrion himself look too pleased by this continued state of affairs. And though Davos cannot read Jon’s expression beyond the exhaustion, he surmises that he must have been the one to convince her differently. 

Still there are puzzle pieces here that don’t quite fit, strange shapes that have been jarred out of their position. He feels as though he has missed a key piece of information somewhere within the past few days. He knows when it began—when the second dragon fantastically, impossibly, soared from the sea, brought back to life by some unknown force. But since that moment, there has been something wrong with everyone, as if the gods have suddenly taken renewed interest in this play of human follies and have decided to intervene again. Even a night’s rest (or half-rest) hasn’t been enough to clear the cobwebs in his mind that would allow him to understand.

“Do you think your sister will be going back to Winterfell?” the queen is asking. Jon shakes his head.

“She won’t risk it. It’s too far and she can’t outpace a dragon.” He gestures out towards the heavily falling snow. “And if it’s snowing like this here in the south, the North will be seeing far worse.”

Which of course begged the question of _why_ it is snowing so hard. In all of his life, Davos can count on one good hand how many times the south has seen the sort of snowfall currently carpeting the capital in a heavy silent blanket. The thick clouds overhead are keeping it from plummeting to incomprehensibly bitter cold but he has rarely seen such a sight south of the Neck.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the castle and beyond the massive curtain of falling snow, Davos can hear dragonsong, dazzlingly high overhead. It is almost beautiful, the snow on the ruins and broken map of Westeros itself.

“Ser Davos.” The queen interrupts his thoughts and he tears his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight.

“Your Grace?”

“You were a smuggler once, I’ve heard you say.”

“Once, Your Grace,” Davos replies, holding up his maimed hand. He hopes Tyrion hasn’t mentioned the sort of smuggling he has been doing in the past few days. “I’m afraid I don’t quite have the same...gumption as I did when I was younger. I also like to think I’ve grown some brains since then”

To his surprise, the queen gives him a small smile. It is a sad, pretty thing, and he has seen a genuine smile from her so rarely, except when she is in the presence of the dark-cloaked young man next to her, that he is briefly taken aback. In this smile, it is too easy to believe her to be the kindhearted ruler she was promised to be, instead of the vindictive mad queen she (briefly?) became.

“Would that more men had your bravery and gumption, Ser Davos,” she says graciously and it is enough to break his heart. “In your time as a smuggler, when you would avoid the lords of Westeros, what would you consider a wise plan of action?”

He hesitates, He can lie, of course. No one here will know if he does. And he realizes that the queen is asking merely to get an idea of the Stark girl’s frame of mind, to figure out the best way to entrap and execute her. He is not confident in what he thinks he knows about what has happened these past few days, from Drogon breathing death upon the city to his conversation with Tyrion to Jon’s stayed hand in the throne room. It is as if he is reading a story with several pages torn out, entire sentences covered in ink splotches or written in different languages. Something profound has changed in the queen and in Jon and Davos doesn’t trust himself to make a decision based on that something he doesn’t know.

But he trusts Jon, has trusted him for years now, ever since he found himself drawn to the stoic young leader in those days at Castle Black. He has no reason to stop trusting him now, even when he wonders how clear Jon’s judgment is when it comes to Daenerys Targaryen.

“A smuggler has friends in low and high places, Your Grace,” he finally says. “Men draw invisible lines they won’t cross every day, whether they shit in the alleys Flea Bottom or in a golden chamber pot in a castle. If you run, you run to a friend who is across a line your pursuer won’t cross, where your capture isn’t worth the headache it will bring.”

The queen frowns thoughtfully. She turns to Jon. “What do you suggest?”

Jon takes in a deep breath and shakes his head. “We can’t ignore Winterfell. Sansa..." He trails off momentarily, an agitated expression clouding his face, and Davos sees Tyrion narrow his eyes, opening his mouth to interrupt. But Jon stops him with a curt gesture. He glances at Davos and then meets the queen’s eyes steadily. “If you had asked me days ago, months ago, where we would stand once the Night King was defeated, I couldn’t have given you a good answer. All I wanted was to survive it, to make sure the people survived it. We did, barely. We can’t afford another war, Dany. Even your men will tire out if we keep fighting.”

 _Clearly not the answer she wants_ , Davos thinks as a look of incredulity warps the queen’s faces. She purses her lips before coldly asking, “So you will have us grovel to your sister.”

“Groveling may prevent any more blood from being shed,” Tyrion points out. Davos can almost hear the queen’s jaw clench when he speaks. “The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. It can be an irreplaceable ally or a formidable enemy but it cannot be both. You can burn the Seven Kingdoms to mollify your pride, if you wish, but only the Night King ever successfully ruled over an army of corpses.”

The queen snaps her eyes away but not before Davos can see the wild pain scalding their depths. 

_It may have been an honorable thing, a reasonable thing, even justifiable. But...that didn’t make it right._

Gods, he wishes he had been wrong.

“When we were on Dragonstone,” Jon says, stepping towards the queen, his voice low. “I asked you to do something you had no reason to, something impossible—trust a stranger.” He reaches forward, cupping her cheek in his hand. “I’m asking you again. Even though you have no reason to, even though I don’t deserve it. But we have to end this before it starts, Dany.”

“There’s only one way to end it,” the queen replies, a thread of resignation in her voice. She leans into him though and Davos suddenly feels as if he is both intruding on something incredibly, profoundly intimate between the dragon and the wolf...and as if the answer to what he has been desperately asking himself is right here, right in his grasp. But it is frustratingly, tantalizingly, out of his reach.

_...but when you see the truth when it’s right there in front of you as real as these iron bars..._

“Ser Davos, you are on good terms with the Lord of Storm’s End?”

Davos nods. “Aye.”

The queen is silent for a beat and then she tilts her chin upwards, a hard decision sparking like flint in her eyes. She steps away from Jon, though her hand is still clasped in his. “Then I will send you as my emissary. We will find Arya Stark but I will not raze my kingdom searching for her. I will not cross that line.” The last few words are so quiet, Davos can barely hear them—he only sees that her grip on Jon’s hand is nearly white-knuckled, as if he is her one remaining salvation in a stormy sea. He is about to murmur his acquiescence when she turns her head away, her expression hidden by a fall of pale white-gold hair. “I will speak with the Warden of the North. Alone.”

Somehow it seems as if the latter part is more directed at Tyrion than him but Davos follows the command regardless and, along with the Lannister dwarf, walks away from the snowy ruins of the map room.

“I should probably apologize for not coming back to see you,” Davos says when he is sure they are out of earshot. 

“I was a dead man,” Tyrion shrugs. “Even I would get depressed constantly visiting me.”

“A lucky turn of events for you then.” Davos looks over his shoulder. “How’d you manage it? Last I saw, she was not in a particularly forgiving mood with you.”

Tyrion slows to a halt, causing Davos to pause too. There is rage and confusion battling for dominance on the smaller man’s bearded face...but Davos has also seen the look that is sparking in his eyes, the look of a man who has been presented with the greatest puzzle and challenge of his life, a feat that would reap great rewards if only he can solve it. He says, “I suppose I have Jon Snow to thank. Our illustrious queen thinks the world of his opinion, it seems.”

“He’s made sound judgments before.”

“‘Before’ being the optimal word.” Tyrion rubs at his face. “He is putting his family first, though not the one I would have chosen. My father once said that the house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first. I sometimes wonder what he would think about this whole bloody mess. He would probably have some ideas about who helped Arya Stark escape. And I’m sure he and the Night King would’ve made a formidable pair.”

Davos grunts. He thinks his nightmares now are bad enough without that possibility to haunt them. Tyrion chuckles but there is no humor in it.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to take what we’re given and be thankful that my dear father was already rotting in the ground before the Night King could make his way this far south. Perhaps that is one of the few bright sides to all of this.” Tyrion shakes his head tiredly and starts to walk off. A few steps away, he stops and turns back to Davos. “And by the way, while I think the rugged sailor look is a fit for you, the exhausted scholar visage does not quite do you justice.”

“Pardon?”

“Your beard. I thought perhaps it was soot but...” Tyrion gestures to his own beard in reference before shrugging and turning and continuing down the corridor. Davos reaches up to touch his beard with his uncrippled hand and then pulls it away, looking down at the black smudges on his fingertips with a frown.

And in his mind--a memory of spilled ink and a single black feather floating down from the rafters of the rookery.

_What do you believe?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Sentry, as we head back to Winterfell for a couple of chapters


	18. The Sentry

As the snow continues to fall heavily outside, Brienne watches from inside the stables as she carries over a worn saddle to a tough-looking maple-hued draft horse. The storm that arrived soon after Lord Howland and his daughter entered through Winterfell’s battered gates has not abated in days. It has covered everything—from the courtyards to the walkways to the kingsroad to the surrounding wolfswood in the distance with a heavy and thick blanket of snow that has turned the whole world cold and pristine and new. While there had only been a few travelers on the kingsroad in the weeks before the storm hit, now a single person has not arrived in days.

The northerners and the handful of remaining wildlings who have decided to kneel rather than venture north of the Wall again have all dealt with the quiet storm with the stoicism that is intrinsic to the men and women who live far north of the Neck. The drifts haven’t risen to nightmarish levels yet and many of the northernmen have kept most of the pathways winding around the castle clear. In the pale light of day and with the castle itself draped in an ivory cape of snow, it is almost impossible to recall the blood and fire and death that rained down upon Winterfell weeks ago. The smell of burned corpses and ichor has been buried beneath the snow and beneath the smell of a castle returning to the tasks of normal everyday life. 

But Brienne has not settled. 

There is tension within the walls of Winterfell that is hard to ignore. Despite numerous ravens, the stretch of silence from the south has everyone on edge for any kind of news about whether or not the Targaryen queen managed to reclaim her throne or if Cersei Lannister obliterated the northern armies and the one remaining dragon. Brienne had passed the rookery earlier, quiet save for the few warbling caws of the ravens resting within. The waiting period makes her feel nebulous, redundant.

With a frosty sigh, she adjusts the saddle on the horse’s back, the leather supple underneath her ungloved fingers. She is Sansa Stark’s sworn sword (a promise—an oath—kept, to everyone, to no one) and yet this period of waiting, of dread and anticipation, has only succeeded in putting everyone’s tempers on a short leash. While nothing short of another apocalypse would have moved Brienne from her post as guardian and sentry to the Starks, Sansa had, rather pointedly, told her that while the south was a continuous mystery, they could at least find out what is happening at the Wall.

 _Shadowcats_ , Brienne thinks, remembering the message that had been sent from the Shadow Tower. _Shadowcats and direwolves_. Brienne is young enough to never have lived through a truly terrible winter. Despite the difference in age between herself and the Starks, all of them are more or less children of spring and summer. She supposes it may have been too much to ask that the Night King’s demise would bring with it the end of the winter storms but it seems as if some things are still forever part of nature.

She squints at the snow again and the silence it brings, annoyed by the fact that it is too silent, save for the soft whickering of the horses in their stalls. Podrick is supposed to accompany her north but she has not seen hide nor hair of him since the previous night. While he is no longer the clumsy and stammering boy he was when Brienne first set out to rescue Sansa Stark a lifetime ago, there are times when he still tries her patience.

_He’s come a long way._

_I came to Winterfell because...I’m not the fighter I used to be. But I’d be honored to serve under your command, if you’ll have me…_

Brienne scowls at nothing. It has been _weeks_. Regardless of the outcome, she knows he has chosen Cersei, whether it is to live as exiles in Essos or to rule as incestuous king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Whatever future he has chosen, _she_ is not in it and he has made it abundantly clear that he does not want her to be. No, she is _here_ , standing in a stable in the far frozen reaches of the North, holding a saddle, still pining for the man she has always known would never stay for her. He knighted her on the eve of winter, took her maidenhead, and then shattered her heart the moment the danger and the lust had passed.

Damn his cruelty. Damn her naivete. 

The horse nickers at her in irritation as she adjusts the saddle with more force than is necessary, her jaw clenched so tightly that she can feel the muscles popping. Now the silence around here does not merely reflect Pod’s absence but the absence of another man. She hates how much she is dwelling on that last conversation, dwelling on him. Perhaps that is why Sansa has given her this mission to range north. While nothing can keep Brienne from doing her sacred duty, she suspects she has been too damned melancholy for anyone’s taste. And it’s not like Sansa or her brother have nothing else on their minds.

She tosses on her cloak and gives the courtyard beyond the arched entrance of the stable one more dark glare before spinning on her heel and venturing back further into the castle to search for Pod. Hollering for him and then chastising him when he would appear, tail between his legs, might serve to distract her from the silence and the cold that has settled as much in her heart as it has on the lands surrounding Winterfell.

It is, however, not Podrick Payne she comes across first. Instead, as she crosses through a cross-shaped corridor, she notices near the end of the hall another young man, sitting near a window that overlooks the wolfswood rising up over the snow-capped hills in the distance. His slight form is nearly buried beneath several blankets and furs but he doesn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, the faraway expression on his face is one she has always associated with the ancient god who wore the face of the boy—though since the lad has reclaimed some semblance of a personality within these past several days, Brienne has found herself more than once on the receiving end of his frustrated temper in the mornings.

(She is not quite sure yet if she prefers Brandon Stark as a monotone-voiced god or a surly young lord.)

The young man in question must finally realize that she is standing there because he looks in her direction, surprise flickering across his face. “Ser Brienne. My apologies—I was lost in thought.”

Of course, there is a little relief in knowing that the god in front of her seems to be sleeping at the moment and can therefore not know everything she has ever done (and with whom). She nods her head respectfully, stepping towards him. “My lord. I was looking for Podrick. Have you seen him?”

Bran shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” The smile he gives her is sweet and self-deprecating. “One of the many talents I lost in these past few days, I’m afraid. Now I’m just a regular cripple, looking out over Winterfell and dreaming dreams of what could’ve been.”

“My lady—” Brienne ventures, stopping when she sees Bran tilt his head at a quizzical angle. She should leave. Keep looking for Podrick. Ride north and try to forget Winterfell and all of its heartbreaks as soon as possible. But instead she pushes on. “My lady is glad to have you back. The brother she remembers.”

The smile he gives her becomes a shade sadder. “I’m still not the brother she remembers. I was a child when she and Father and Arya left for Winterfell years ago. We all were. That’s not who any of us are now.” He glances back out at the wolfswood. “But it’s kind of her to think so and it’s kind of you to say it. I think I would be more helpful to her if I could actually see what was happening in the capital. It never really occurred to me how far King’s Landing is until all of our troops marched south with Daenerys. Oh, I remember that,” he amends upon seeing the look on Brienne’s face. “My memories are fine. My Sight is not.”

 _Is there a difference_ , Brienne wonders, remembering during the war council prior to the attack on Winterfell when Bran—or the Three-Eyed Raven—had mentioned he was the memory of the world. She has been surrounded by magic and gods and darkness ever since that day a shadow opened Renly’s throat, years and years ago, and she still doesn’t understand half of it. Perhaps it is not her place to—the Great Houses have their legacies and their ties to the gods old and new, powers as old as the land itself. Her role is that of guardian—there is no destiny for her.

“It is a gift that I hope returns to you soon,” Brienne says politely, prepared to nod her leave and continue her search for Podrick. Bran sighs.

“I hope so too but I’m starting to wonder how much of a gift it really is,” he murmurs. 

“My lord?”

The young man hesitates for a moment, glancing up at Brienne with a grimace on his face. “It is...a great power. It helped us defeat the Night King.” For some reasons, his words sound doubtful here but before Brienne can question it, Bran is already continuing. “But it’s gone now, for some reason that I still don’t understand. And I’ve been thinking that maybe that sort of power will always cost you something. I was able to walk again—I had _power—_ but I lost so many other things.”

Brienne is confused. “Do you not miss not being able to walk?”

“Of course!” Bran shifts uncomfortably in his seat, absently adjusting the blankets and furs in his lap. “I don’t want to be a broken thing. I wanted to be a knight. But then this came along. And in my dreams, in my visions, I was still able to walk. It’s just that...it did cost something, you know. That kind of power, to be able to See everything—how could it come without a price?” He shakes his head. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about it, is all. There isn’t much for me to do these days except think.”

He punctuates his last words with a gesture towards the silent white hills and woods. Barely a few weeks ago, those woods contained in their midst the blue-eyed dead and their masters. Now the trees are nothing but silent sentinels in the storm. Brienne frowns, following the young man’s gaze towards the northwestern woods. In the light of the day, they hardly seem foreboding at all.

“I wish I could tell Sansa what she wants to hear,” Bran continues, sounding sad. “But I can’t tell her what I don’t know and I won’t tell her a lie.”

This takes Brienne by surprise. She looks down at the crippled young man, her brow furrowing. “Your sister would not want you to tell a lie to assuage her fears.”

Bran sighs.

“Sansa wants to protect all of us,” he says. Before Brienne can protest, before she can say that it is _her_ job to protect the Starks, on a promise made to Catelyn Stark (and to Jaime), Bran adds, “It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate you as her sworn sword but you have to remember that we all have Stark _and_ Tully blood. Family is important to us. We’ve only just come home after so long. What good would a lie do now? If I tell her that I _know_ Daenerys did something unthinkable in the capital, Sansa will do whatever she needs to in order to bring Arya and Jon home. Even with what I saw before I...before I lost my Sight, it's only an impression. And Sansa is too smart to base a defensive strategy off an impression, a guess.”

“It is the honorable thing,” Brienne reminds him. “How could you not want your sister and...brother home?” She is not sure how much she is supposed to know when it comes to Jon Snow, knows that Sansa told her because she trusted her to stay quiet about it. But does the young Stark lord know that Brienne knows? _Better to stay my tongue. Better to let it be in the wind._

Bran glances up at her, a small regretful smile on his face. “I _do_ want them home. More than anything. I want all of us to be safe together again. But it’s not just us anymore and Sansa knows that. It’s all of the North and every House that pledges to us. It’s the Vale and the riverlands and the wildlings. It’s the same duty that Father had, and Robb. There’s no one to protect them and us except us.” He breaks eye contact then, turning his attention back to the falling snow. “Father used to say that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. It is just Sansa and Arya and Jon and I now but it’s not really just us. It’s everyone who has died to make sure that we lived and it’s everyone who is still living now that we have to take care of. And it’s why I miss the power of the Sight, even if it cost me so much. It feels like I can’t do anything to help anyone without it.”

That wasn’t entirely true, Brienne thinks. Even now, the young man is exercising caution with what he does know, carefully making sure he is not jumping to conclusions without confirmation from the south about...whatever has happened. Is that not admirable? Or is it truly as everyone who has ever had power believes—that you can only protect the people you love if you wield power like a whip? 

But then how do the common people live and breathe every day? They have no power beyond the bread they put in an oven and the fire they keep fueled with wood or the walls that shelter them from the northern winds. And yet they protect their families and their health to the best of their ability, waking and resting with the rising and setting of the sun. They fight in wars when their liege lords command and some of their sons become knights to defend the land but for many, the days that have passed are no different than what they were ten or twenty or fifty years ago. And they thrive.

So is it power? Luck? Or some unknown god of the common people, who do not wage wars or seek crowns or chase destiny? Brienne may have once believed in the notions of chivalry and goodness and fairness, into those halcyon days in Renly’s camp. A few of those beliefs even clung to her in her time with Jaime but now...now she wonders. She only has her sword and she doubts they will ever sing songs of her, if her tale will even be woven in history next to the Starks and the Lannisters and the Targaryens and the Baratheons. It is tempting to want power in that case. But if she has her sword and she has the breath in her lungs, is that not power too?

“Perhaps that is the lesson we all must learn,” Brienne says quietly, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword. “To do what we can with what we have.” The realm had bled for years because people sought that elusive crown of power, fueled by ambition that grew and grew and grew. How many dead? How many burned? How many empty bellies and fatherless children and nights full of tears?

How many?

Bran sighs. “I really do wish it was that simple. People abuse power, even the people with the best intentions.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts and the smile he gives her now is apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you. I heard that you’re headed north?”

Brienne tries to hide her relief that the conversation has shifted—she does not know where the previous topic could have headed but she guesses she would not have liked it in the least. Instead she says, “Yes. My lady thought it would be best to put to rest this rumor from the Wall.” And with their recent lack of luck with the ravens, it also made sense beyond the obvious ploy of trying to get Brienne out of her melancholic mood.

Bran is silent for a moment. Then, “I feel as though I know what’s going on there. But he didn’t—” He stops, as if wrangling a thought back into his mind. “I mean, I didn’t get the chance to see it my dream. I woke up before then. But I know the answer is there. I just can’t seem to dream it again.”

That might explain his sour moods in the mornings. “What did you dream about?”

“I don’t remember. But I know it was important, if that makes any sense.”

It doesn’t. But Brienne is too polite—especially around a lord, no matter how young—to say that aloud. She opens her mouth to say some words of acquiescence but the thought is interrupted by someone further down the hall saying, “My lord! Ser!”

She turns and sees Podrick standing in the middle of the cross-shaped intersection, already wearing a riding cloak and gloves. His round pale face is flush from exertion and he is breathing a little heavier than normal. He walks towards them at a brisk pace, relief clearly flooding his face. Before he can murmur an apology, Brienne is already saying, with some irritation, “I was waiting for you in the stables, Pod. I had to go looking for you.”

“I know, ser. I’m sorry.” In his defense, the young man does look properly abashed. But there is still that look of urgent distraction in his eyes. “But Lady Sansa sent me to find you. Both of you. There’s a message from the capital.”

_A message from the capital._

She senses Bran sit up straighter in his chair but it almost feels as if there is a roar in her ears, her heart beating so loudly she can barely make out the young Stark lord telling Pod to take them to Sansa. Pod situates himself behind Bran’s chair and starts pushing him down the hall, with Brienne following as if in a trance. She is not sure what she is hoping for. She is loyal to the Starks, of course—more so than she is to the dragon queen, at least. But a victory for the Targaryen queen is—theoretically—a victory for the Starks. 

But what does that mean for Cersei Lannister? What does that mean for _Jaime_?

She tries to quell her emotions so that her face isn’t an open bleeding wound when they meet Sansa. And it does not take Pod long to lead them towards a side room of the Great Hall. A fire roars in the hearth of the small room, casting golden shadows along the walls and table and chairs within. Pale daylight spills in from a gargantuan window just opposite of the door, staining Sansa Stark’s vibrant auburn hair silver. She stands by the window, a small piece of paper grasped in her—shaking, Brienne notices with alarm—hands. Samwell Tarly is there too, sitting at the table. Lord Howland sits across from him, his face an implacable, unreadable mask.

“My lady,” Brienne says, stepping around Bran to stand by Sansa’s side. Sansa looks up at her and the thrumming of Brienne’s heartbeat gets louder in her ears. The young woman’s face is pale and drawn and there is a terrible look in her blue eyes that Brienne cannot place. She feels as if she has seen that look once before, on Catelyn Stark’s face, but cannot remember the occasion...and dreads trying to dredge up a memory. Her grasp tightens around Oathkeeper’s grip.

“Sansa.” Pod has wheeled Bran to the table and he has taken one look at Sam and Lord Howland’s faces and clearly drawn his own conclusion. “The message—what does it say?”

Sansa looks down at the piece of paper in her hands, blinking rapidly and pursing her lips. Her voice is low and surprisingly steady when she finally speaks.

“‘ _The Lioness and the Spider are dead and the capital burns with fire and blood. The Dragon sits on the throne and the Hand and the Wolf will reap the rewards of treason_.’” She lowers the paper, though her grip is so tight and unsteady, Brienne fears as though she is about to rip the paper in half. But her mind has chased itself back to the first part of the missive, even for all of the terrible things that came after. 

The Lioness is dead. 

_Cersei Lannister_ is dead.

But what of Jaime?

Brienne tries to shove the thought to the back of her mind, as the rest of the letter crawls angrily to the forefront—Sansa has also read that Lord Varys is dead and gods know how many people within the capital. And Lord Tyrion and...Jon? Arya? The message says that one of them has committed treason, along with Tyrion, against the Targaryen queen and now sits condemned. The words are damned and hellish for so short a message, and who even would have sent it? Surely not the Dothraki or the Unsullied. Are there any northerners that she would trust to send this taunting message to Winterfell? Even more alarming, what does any of this mean for the relations between the north and the south, already embittered by the rivalry and mistrust, secrets and lies?

Bran holds his hand out towards Sansa, his brow furrowed. She hands him the note before turning back to the window. “Our forces are in the south.” Bran doesn’t say anything in response, only reading over the message with a frown.

“Do you recognize this handwriting?” he finally asks.

“No. It’s not Jon or Arya’s. And _she_ wouldn’t write it herself to gloat.”

Lord Howland gently takes the scrap of paper from Bran, glancing over the words. He is silent for a moment, clearly mulling over something in his mind. Finally he lets out a breath and says, “With all due respect, this is not gloating. If the queen is as you say she is, then she would tell you to bend the knee, to do some act of obeisance. This message lacks that. No—this is a warning.”

Sam looks concerned. “A warning?” Lord Howland nods.

“To what ends is left to be seen but..." He stands and approaches Sansa, slipping the message back to her. “This is not a declaration of war, my lady.”

Brienne watches as Sansa’s eyes flash with mercurial emotions. Rage. Frustration. Fear. “It says that the wolf will reap the rewards of treason. Arya and Jon are still south with her. How can that be anything except a declaration of war?”

“She’d be foolish to kill either one,” Lord Howland says calmly. “Your sister is the slayer of the Night King, your brother a war hero. Do you think she would risk her crown, so soon after achieving it, with a civil war between the northerners and her army? No, dear heart—whoever sent this message is giving us a warning by provocation.”

 _A warning by provocation?_ Brienne steps closer to Sansa as the young woman braces herself against the window, her shoulders tight with tension. Brienne does not know Lord Howland well enough to know whether his advice is sound, has only been told by others that he is an old friend and comrade-in-arms of Eddard Stark’s. She certainly does not trust him yet, regardless of the old friendship. “My lord, what gives you reason to suspect that it is anything but what Lady Sansa says it is?”

Lord Howland smiles at Brienne before nodding respectfully at her. “I have no reason beyond a feeling of doubt. This message is written to be incendiary, to provoke you into action. Some of it could very well be a lie—I cannot speak as to its veracity. But imagine if you raise your banners against the Targaryen queen when she has not done the same. You put yourself in direct opposition of the new queen with most of your forces gone. Your allies are close but are they close enough to stand against a dragon?” He looks over at Bran and Sam. “I have said that I would not involve myself in the politics of war. I suspect that many of my fellow men are also tired of the battles that have plagued the Seven Kingdoms for far too long. You cannot act without more information and without more information you cannot pass judgment.”

“Then what would you suggest we do, Lord Howland?” Sansa asks, a bitter edge to her voice. “Do we wait until Daenerys chains us with promises and oaths? Do we grovel in front of her dragon so as not to be burned alive? I cannot submit the North to the rule of a tyrant.”

“But is it your choice to make?” Lord Howland asks gently. “Jon Snow is the Warden of the North.”

Sansa turns away. Her next words are soft, almost so quiet that even Brienne, standing at her side, can barely hear her. “Jon is blinded by love.”

Silence falls across the room. 

It is Brienne who breaks it, feeling it weighing heavily on her shoulders and desperate to rectify it some way. “Podrick and I were going north to the Wall. If it pleases my lady, my lord, we can go south instead.” Where the capital is burning. Where the mother of dragons sits on a throne of swords. “Two riders can make better time than an entire caravan, especially in this weather. If we leave immediately and travel fast and light, we can surely be there in a fortnight. Sooner, if this storm slows as we get further south.”

Podrick nods his assent but both Bran and Sansa are shaking their heads. Sansa says, “We can’t afford it” right as Bran replies, “It would still take you longer to go south than to go north.” That frustrated look that Brienne saw in his eyes earlier, when he was discussing his lack of Sight, returns. “No, we have to wait. Go north to the Wall. Find Tormund and let him know what has happened.”

“The wildlings..." Sam starts, stops, and then licks his lips, starting again. “The wildlings are loyal to Jon but they’re done with battles south of the wall. There’s a reason they went north and didn’t help Daenerys try to win the crown. They’re freefolk. This isn’t their fight. They won’t just...come back because you ask them to.”

 _Then where does that leave us_ , Brienne thinks, her sword belt suddenly feeling as heavy as the world itself. Winterfell’s isolation has never felt so severe until now, surrounded by snow and a dark twisting wood and not much else. 

“We’ve sent messages to Sunspear and Storm’s End, haven’t we?” Sansa suddenly asks. Sam nods and Sansa steps away from the window, tossing the small piece of parchment onto the table. “Then we will have to do what we can until we receive an answer from them. Ser Brienne, Podrick—we still need to know what is going on at the Wall. Find out what their message was about and, if at all possible, speak with Tormund. He may yet help us.” She leans against the table, lost in thought. “If Daenerys has taken the throne, she will expect us to bow eventually. There is no ignoring that fact. We must—”

She stops suddenly and turns towards the window. Brienne has heard it too and peers out into the heavy curtain of snowfall still encompassing the land, Lord Howland at her side. There is not much to see beyond the snow and the ravaged towers and curtain wall of Winterfell but they have all seemingly heard it—a horn. Faint, clearly at some distance, but there is no mistaking the stentorian tone. Brienne automatically shifts her gaze to the south. While it is unlikely the Targaryen queen has marched her forces north so soon after taking the capital, she cannot dispel the notion.

But no—the horn sounds again and while the snow has wreaked havoc on the mere idea of sensible acoustics, the noise is clearly coming from the northwest.

From the wolfswood.

Sansa has already turned away from the window, her expression grim. “Bran, stay here,” she commands briskly before hastily walking out of the room, the hem of her dark gray cloak trailing after her. Brienne follows closely behind. She hears murmurs in the room behind her but she doesn’t turn to see if Pod is following. Her hand finds the grip of Oathkeeper. Who could possibly be coming from the west, except Iron Islanders? Have they, in unanimously declaring for Daenerys, come to put Winterfell in its place? 

_A god of the sea and a betrayal of a young man thought of as a brother, Winterfell burning, the first of Robb's many mistakes..._

_No, they would not brave the snow_ , Brienne thinks as they emerge into the courtyard. There is shouting clear on the other side of the yard by the nearest gate. Both Brienne and Sansa are tall enough that their strides carry them across the muddied field in very little time, just as the gate swings open. A lone rider enters, a litany of curses far more acerbic than Brienne feels is strictly necessary.

“You poxy-cocked bastards! We were just fucking here! Or have your wits shriveled up like your balls?” The rider lowers their hood, to reveal a young woman no older than five-and-twenty with hair the color of a honeyed sunset. She glowers at the men at the gate as she dismounts her horse, and Brienne realizes the poor beast is nearly frothing at the muzzle. “We’ve got about a hundred or so just a mile west of here. Are you just going to sit on your useless frozen asses and let them walk this way without any help? We’ve got babes and old women, you shits!”

The men all grumble but dart their eyes respectfully to Sansa. It is only because of this that the young woman seems to realize that there is more to this company than the men working at the gate and herself. She spins to face Sansa and Brienne, glowering. “You’re the lady of this castle? You’re Sansa Stark?”

Sansa nods, her expression cool. “And you, my lady?”

The woman scoffs. “I’m no lady. The name’s Maecy.” She turns her glare back towards the men standing at the gate. “And your men are still next to useless.”

Brienne takes a step forward but Sansa holds out her hand to halt her. Her tone is polite but even Brienne can hear the steel and ice behind. “What business have you in Winterfell, Lady Maecy?”

“Tormund said you’d help us,” the young woman says. “He’s hurt something fierce—the crone says it’s a strange poison, like none she’s ever seen—but he said you’d at least help. I said we had no business asking, after we’ve already run south once but..."

“One moment,” Sansa says, interrupting the woman. “You’re a wildling. You’re supposed to be north of the Wall. What happened?”

The woman’s face twists and Brienne finally notices the strained lines of tension around her mouth, the heavy dark circles beneath her eyes. The woman is pale and clearly exhausted and even her hair, despite its strange coloring, is windswept and tangled.

This woman has been running.

“That’s the rub of it, isn't it?” She chokes out a laugh. "We were almost there, weren't we? We were almost _home_. And then—all of it. All of it came thundering down with a scream. We ran. Gods, we ran but it was like running from your own shadow. And then the nightmares came afterwards, picking us off one by one. Demons and the terrible things of the night. We ran from one hell to another." She meets Sansa's eyes, bitterness and fatigue bruising the dark brown depths. "My lady, the Wall is _gone_. The night never ended. It's only just begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting with next chapters, updates should be a weekly occurrence on Mon/Tues. Thank you to everyone has come along for the ride, and especially thanks to those who are leaving comments--I love reading your theories!
> 
> Next chapter: The Scholar, for one more Winterfell POV before we head back to King's Landing and Storm's End.


	19. The Scholar

For the second time in nearly as many months, Winterfell has swallowed up a horde of wildlings.

While the racket and fuss has increased with the surprise arrival of the haggard travelers, it is not nearly at the levels it was in the weeks surrounding the battle against the army of the dead. The freefolk’s numbers are piteous in comparison to the ones that departed several weeks ago. They had arrived at Winterfell's gates, almost too exhausted to admit their surprise at the gates already opened—"you sent that woman" was only met with tired blank stares and shrugs. Sam had spoken to a Byrron Flint once the wildlings were safely behind Winterfell’s walls, a man whom he only vaguely remembers having been posted at Eastwatch and then the Shadow Tower before...well, before everything. The knight had only shaken his head when Sam asked about it, his craggy yet handsome face bruised and darkened with fatigue.

“Some of them went further west to make their way south,” the man had said over a strong cup of ale, the shadows under his eyes so pronounced they looked like paint. “A few went east. Even fewer went back, to try to make it over the Wall, probably thinking it was safer. Some who got impatient went on ahead of us to make it here.” (And Sam hadn’t needed to state the obvious--those who had forged ahead clearly never made it to Winterfell.) “When whatever fell beast took down Tormund, we knew we couldn’t stop until we made it here. Perhaps some of them are at Karhold or Last Hearth or Deepwood Motte. Or maybe they found refuge somewhere else, I don’t know. We burned the bodies as best we could but we couldn’t stop for long.”

The question that Flint hadn’t been able to answer—what in the world was chasing them—had been even more bizarre. “A giant fucking spider and gods know what else” had not been entirely helpful though Sam hopes (prays, quite honestly) that by “giant”, he had meant no larger than a tomcat. He had not dared asked for more details on that, though having seen Tormund from afar, he is starting to assume the spider in question may have been slightly larger than your average cat.

The castle has been busy for the past several days, as its population grew once again. Sansa had listened to the plight of the wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch for all of five minutes before she had taken charge, ordering her men to light fires in the empty rooms of the castle, to start preparing bread and soup and beds for the weary travelers, and to have Maester Wolkan come at once, if you please, to see to the sick and wounded among the large—but not too large—crowd of freefolk. Many of them, once inside the castle, had curled up in the prepared rooms and fallen asleep before they had even managed to fill their bellies. Sam had counted a little less than two hundred of the freefolk and black brothers, once the handful of stragglers had caught up, wild-eyed with exhaustion and nearly collapsing at the gate.

How many had departed? Sam can’t recall. More than two hundred, he knows. _Much_ more than two hundred.

He has not stopped to think about the Wall.

Instead, he remains busy too, assisting Maester Wolkan when necessary. None of the injured seem to be in danger of dying any time soon, though Sam finds himself on the receiving end of multiple people cursing his lineage, his balls, and whatever good sense the Seven gave him, especially as he tries to keep infections from spreading with copious amounts of alcohol on open wounds. Some eventually apologize for their sour behavior; most don’t, giving him a dark glower every time they see him in the halls, as if he is personally responsible for their desperate flight south.

After one rather surly wildling throws a full bowl of soup at his head, Sam decides he’d rather spend time with Gilly and Little Sam than with this lot. He hustles out of the room, thick brown broth dripping down the wall, and heads towards the one place in Winterfell he knows he can almost always find Gilly—the kitchens.

When he enters into the vast chamber, he is greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread, even though most of the cooks have vanished to rest. He spots the woman and child he is looking for immediately because of it and hurries over. Gilly sits at a table shoved into a far corner of the room, Little Sam on her lap, a book and a plate of dried venison strips and crusty brown bread, dotted with chunks of apples and walnuts, on the table in front of her. Little Sam has a cup of something that smells like warm spices and chocolate in his hands, and he gives Sam the serious, contemplative look that all children possess as he approaches. Gilly looks up and a beaming smile crosses her face.

“Sam,” she says, though she makes no move to rise. Her belly has not rounded much but even Sam notices that her bodice is a little tighter, her breasts slightly fuller. It is an entirely inappropriate time to feel his cock stirring and he quickly sits down. 

“I thought I’d find you here.”

“I was hoping to stay out of the way,” Gilly murmurs, toying with a small chunk of the bread. “Pep let me work on the bread while Little Sam played at this table. I noticed…” She glances quickly at her son, who is too engrossed in his drink to care what the adults are talking about. She smiles but there is sadness there. “I noticed that there weren’t many children who returned. Not really.”

Sam has noticed that too and it makes him want to cling to what Flint said, that some of the freefolk have simply ventured to other holdfasts between Winterfell and what is left of the Wall. Of course, at least two sets of stragglers who wandered in were towing children along, the younger ones wailing from the cold and hunger and exhaustion. The winter storm has not brought the frigid temperatures that came with the army of the dead but still, to hike through the snowdrifts and the never-ending white hills and wolfswood, without stopping for food or to sleep, must have been a trial.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks, his eyes wandering down to where Gilly is still picking at the bread. She blushes.

“Just a sour belly, as usual,” she says, pushing the plate towards him. “Even this is a little too rich for me. But Lady Sansa sent me a plate of regular brown bread and tea and cheese earlier. That helped. You lords and ladies always have the best cheese.”

Sam smiles but finds that despite his own stomach growling furiously he cannot bear to eat any of the food in front of him. No, ever since the wildlings had come pouring through the battered and broken gates of Winterfell (and perhaps even a little before, during that dizzying conversation with Meera some time ago), there has been a knot in the pit of his stomach that no amount of busywork has been able to assuage. Sam longs to bury his nose in one of the half dozen tomes he has rescued from Winterfell’s library, to pore over his notes, to make sense of it all. But the arrival of the freefolk has made mincemeat of his plans...and has thrown all of his theories asunder.

Even more pressing is if the stories that the wildlings keep telling are true (the Wall fallen, blue-eyed corpses, something in the dark hunting them), then Winterfell has suddenly once again become a haven and a possible tomb. And it makes no sense, none at all. Arya Stark had buried Valyrian steel into the Night King’s heart. His generals and his dragon and the hordes of the dead ( _decrepit fingers around his neck, skin sloughing off bone, the unearthly shrieking and the eyes, blue and cold and piercing..._ ) had all collapsed and shattered into nothing.

_You should’ve had the Targaryen kill the Night King._

Sam hasn’t had the time to ask Meera to explain herself. Now, with the tales being told, he is afraid to ask. He reaches out and grasps Gilly’s hands, suddenly wishing that they had made their way south towards the Reach sooner. The storm that came on the heels of the Reeds’ arrival has not abated and now...and now…

“Sam?” Gilly’s soft voice breaks him from his reverie. “Are you okay?”

He blinks and then looks across at her. He lets out a huffed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I guess I’m just tired. One of the wildlings threw a bowl of soup at my head when I tried to stitch up a nasty gash near his...ah...you know.”

Gilly grins. “Well, maybe he thought you had different motives. Maybe he thought you were jealous.”

Sam can’t help it—he flushes, first in embarrassment, and then in laughter, as he glances over at Little Sam, who seems to be holding up his cup from sheer habit now because surely there is nothing left in it. “Gilly! In front of Little Sam?”

“Oh, he’s a big boy,” Gilly coos, planting a kiss on top of the little boy’s tawny head. Sam watches as his nose wrinkles. “Though I wish there were more children here for him to play with.”

“We’ll leave as soon as the storm lets up,” Sam promises. “We’ll go to where it’s warmer and this time for good.”

Gilly’s smile is quieter now, a shade sadder.

“Of course we will.” Sam furrows his brow, confused.

“You don’t want to?”

For a long moment, Gilly doesn’t answer. Instead, she absently strokes Little Sam’s hair as he puts his cup down on the table with a very loud thud and reaches for the bits of candied brown bread, grabbing handfuls of it to shove into his mouth. Sam is optimistic, maybe too optimistic, all things considering, but without knowing why any of this is happening, he can only hope that the stories are flukes. That the Wall came down simply because of what happened to Eastwatch, that the freefolk ran back south because of superstition rather than true tales…

_Aye, and what of your brothers? Are they superstitious too?_

“Back when I lived with Craster,” Gilly is saying, and Sam winces, remembering those days and the Fist of the First Men and the blood and the mutiny and the dead, “you remember what he used to do. Jon saw it once, remember? He left the babes out, the boys, for the real gods, he said. As sacrifices. Sometimes, he left my sisters out too, the ones who were sick. But mostly it was the boys.”

Sam swallows. Yes—yes, he remembers this. He tries not to but he remembers.

“I sometimes heard them crying in the night,” Gilly muses. “They were far—Craster always took them so far away—but I could hear them. Crying from the cold, crying from hunger. I could _hear_ them. And then...I didn’t hear anything. It was always very cold on those nights.” She stops, her nose scrunched up. “Have you ever wondered what the Night King would have wanted with a baby? I never saw no babies attacking us. And even the dead could move, even if they were missing limbs or inside parts or their entire head—so why not a baby? I always wondered about that, what made them so good to take. Craster said it was because we had old blood in our veins, blood of the First Men and the blood of winter.”

“Is that why you don’t want to go?” Sam asks quietly, a brief mental image of a dead toddler with eyes as blue as stars approaching him with a knife in its chubby hands. He shudders. “Because you feel that this is where you belong?”

Gilly shrugs. “I belong wherever you are. It’s just...I didn’t fit in real well where you lived, don’t you think? I’m no lady. I was born and raised north of the Wall. Little Sam was born north of the Wall. Maybe Craster was right. Maybe that’s why the Night King was so attracted to us. We have the blood of the north and of winter in us. We’re not summer folk.”

 _But is it safe here_ , Sam thinks, squeezing her hand. The freefolk have brought their stories but it is still impossible to believe. The Night King is dead. Winter is over. How how how could the Wall comes down, unless it is just the belated reaction from Viserion destroying Eastwatch?

 _But the Wall has stood for thousands of years,_ a voice in his head argues. _Is that in your books? It is magic itself, built by a Stark to keep out the forces of winter. Has it done its duty? Is it no longer needed?_

The words of his oath ring in his head, spoken so many lifetimes ago before in the godswood, Jon Snow at his side.

_Hear my words and bear witness to my vow. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

Is it possible for such a time to come to an end? Some men of the Night’s Watch had returned to their posts after the battle of Winterfell—to guard the Wall from the wildlings still? To act as mere gatekeepers between the far and frozen shores of the north and the rest of Westeros? Of course, it makes some sense...but now, presumably, the Wall is gone, crushing Seven knew how many wildlings and black brothers as it came thundering down in a terrible, never-ending roar of ice. 

If the Wall is—was—magic, then does that mean the spells that had kept it standing had been undone? Honestly, how much does anyone really know about the Wall and the people who built it and the true origins of the Night’s Watch? Did they have it all wrong?

“Uh oh.” Sam starts as Gilly interrupts his thoughts, her eyes sparkling. “You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You’re thinking real hard about something,” she responds with a cheeky grin. “I can tell. Your nose gets all wrinkly, like an old man. Like this.” She demonstrates, crossing her eyes and making an absolutely ridiculous face that only causes Sam to laugh despite himself. Little Sam, taking advantage of the adults’ distraction, reaches for another handful of bread and a chunk of dried venison, shoving both into his mouth with very little decorum.

“I don’t look like that,” Sam protests, picking up the book Gilly was reading and ambling to his feet. “And I’m going to be a maester. Even if I did look like that, it comes with the title. I have to look serious and studious all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Gilly chirps as she rises too, fussing over Little Sam too much to notice Sam’s own blush at her words. Gilly straightens after brushing crumbs from Little Sam’s face with a few gentle chiding remarks, and the three of them walk out of the kitchen. Gilly is not far enough along in her pregnancy for walking to be a chore but Sam still slows down his pace to a leisurely stroll. Little Sam walks between both of them, sticky hands holding one of Gilly’s and one of Sam’s, leaping over tiny cracks in the corridor with all the enthusiasm only a child can muster.

They walk in a comfortable silence for a long time, the general murmur of Winterfell a soothing background noise to their own steps. Little Sam quietly sings a strange ditty under his breath as he leaps over another crack, giggling. It is so easy to believe that the wars and the terrors of night are long gone in the daylight and the immense bulk of Winterfell’s walls ( _the nightmares are gone, the nightmares are in the past, don’t think about it, don’t think about the demons and the dead_ ). 

“Do you know what Lady Sansa is going to do?” Gilly suddenly asks as they round a corner towards their bedchamber. “With all them wildlings here now and saying that the Wall is gone and something out there is hunting them...maybe we need a dragon or two.”

Sam barely manages to hide a wince. He hasn’t told Gilly about the message from the capital ( _dark wings, dark words_ ). As far as he knows, only a half dozen people are aware of the message itself—neither Bran nor Sansa has even told Maester Wolkan. Even though neither of them forbade him from speaking anything to Gilly, Sam has kept his mouth shut nonetheless, keeping himself busy with the wildlings and various duties about the castle, an ear always cocked towards the north for confirmation of the stories that are spreading like wildfire through the castle.

It is a foul thing to receive terrible news both from the north and the south almost simultaneously—a victory for Daenerys and the Wall, released from its spells, shattering with thunder—

Sam stops dead in the middle of the corridor. Little Sam stops too, which in turn halts Gilly and she turns and looks at both of them, a frown on her face. “Sam? Are you okay?”

“I—” Sam swallows. It is like he has all of the puzzle pieces in front of him without any idea of how to put any of them together. Daenerys conquering the capital, the Wall falling, Bran losing his Sight, the twin looks of pain across the Stark siblings’ faces, horrors once again ( _maybe, oh Mother, please no_ ) coming alive in the night—all of these things happening nearly at the same time, or at least as an effect of one event happening, the faint rumbles of dragonsong leagues and leagues away producing a deadly and unstoppable avalanche.

Fire and ice.

Fire _and_ ice.

“Sam, you’re all pale,” Gilly murmurs, reaching out to gently touch his cheek. “You should get some sleep. You’re no good to Maester Wolkan if you faint like a high lady while stitching up one of the freefolk.”

“N-no, I’m fine,” Sam managers to stammer, mustering a shaky smile. Gilly looks unconvinced. “I swear it. You and Little Sam go rest. There’s something I need to talk with Maester Wolkan about and then I’ll come sleep. I promise.”

Gilly stares up at him for a long moment before she relents. She leans forward to kiss him, ignoring the look of disgust on Little Sam’s face. “Okay. You do that. Don’t let any of those ungrateful bastards throw another bowl of stew at your head. I’ll come and yell at them, I will.”

That makes Sam laugh and he watches as the mother and son continue on their way down the corridor. His smile, however, gradually falls away to the shadows, as his thoughts turn back to the mystery that refuses to settle itself in his mind. Surely, he thinks, there can at least be something in all of the books he’s read, something he should be able to remember, that will give him a better idea what any of this means. But how long had he studied and researched the White Walkers and the Night King and the Long Night in secret, while trying to take Maester Aemon’s place, when Jon was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

(And he had been at the citadel when his sworn brothers had buried daggers in Jon’s heart, too far away, too useless, to save his friend.)

He still has books upon books stolen from the forbidden library of the citadel, all of them somehow surviving the battle. After his discussion with Meera several days ago, he had meant to go back to them, to pore over them until his eyes dried out. But he had simply forgotten, thought he had enough time to maybe read while he and Gilly and Little Sam were journeying to the Reach. Of course, now that plan has completely fallen by the wayside, with the wildlings here and their extraordinary tales hounding his thoughts.

Sam looks at the book in his hand, the one Gilly had been reading in the kitchen. “Well, you certainly won’t help me,” he murmurs, gazing at the title: _A Romantic Ballad of Jonquil and the Knight That Loved Her_. He sighs deeply, suddenly feeling very weary at the mere prospect of burying himself in texts again—and this time, with a possibly very, very, very limited time frame. He shakes his head and then turns on his heel. He needs to talk to someone who can at least point him in the right direction. Perhaps then he can have some idea of where to even begin.

It is Sansa he finds her first. He stumbles across her in the war room, and he would have kept walking past the room if he hadn’t noticed the flickering candlelight coming from within and the very soft hush of voices. He pauses and then grimaces, gathering his bearings and pushing open the slightly ajar door. He’s only been in this room once since the battle of Winterfell, to discuss Daenerys’s plan to take the capital. The meeting had been somber—so many who had gathered there prior to the Night King’s attack, dead and burned and ashes on the wind—and the tension between the dragon queen and the Starks had been so thick, Sam squirms now thinking of the memory.

Sansa is sitting at the table that is still situated in the middle of the room, empty of its plans and its markers. Across from her, a burly and wan man, wrapped in enough furs to keep a small town warm through the winter, and it takes Sam a moment to realize that it is Tormund. The man is as pale as death save for the unhealthy flush of red across his cheeks, heavy and dark bags under his eyes. He looks up upon Sam’s entrance into the room, and Sam sees that his blue eyes are bright with fever. 

The wildling squints at Sam before letting out a huff of breath that may have once aspired to be a laugh. “Ah, the little crow’s fat friend. Would’ve thought you’d made your way south.”

Sam glances over at Sansa. The young woman must be incredibly tired but she hides it well behind an implacable icy mask of polite interest. “Is something the matter?” she asks.

Sam shakes his head. “No. No, I’m sorry.” He nods at the pair of them. “It’s nothing that can’t wait.”

He turns to leave when he hears Sansa sigh. “You might as well have a seat.” Sam glances over his shoulder at the young woman. She gestures towards one of the empty chairs. “You know as much as any of us, and I would appreciate your opinion.”

“Oh,” he manages to say before hurrying to take a seat. “Funny enough, I wanted to talk with _you_ about _your_ opinion on something as well.”

“Is it what to do with my people?” Tormund asks gruffly. “Can’t go back beyond the Wall when there’s no Wall to go beyond.”

“Tormund was just telling me about what happened,” Sansa says and Sam has to admire the coolness in her voice, as if they were merely discussing the weather. He always has to remind himself that, if he remembers truly, she was instructed under the tutelage of Cersei Lannister, Littlefinger, and Ramsay Bolton themselves. No wonder she holds everyone except her family at arm’s length. She turns her attention back to the red-headed man. “You didn’t see anything that would’ve brought the Wall down?”

Tormund shakes his head. “Only warning we got was that direwolf taking off.” Sam jerks his head up at that—it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn’t seen Ghost among the tired wildlings and black brothers that had streamed into Winterfell. The white wolf with its blood red eyes would have been hard to miss. Where had Jon’s direwolf gone? Had he been one of the mass fatalities that had been crushed once the Wall came down? “Next thing we know, the whole fucking Wall is coming down on top of our heads. We ran south—only place _to_ run.”

“Ghost warned you?” Sansa murmurs, narrowing her eyes in thought. Tormund shrugs.

“As much as a bloody direwolf can,” he replies. “Haven’t seen him since.”

It is another puzzle piece to a picture that gets more and more complicated the longer Sam looks at it. There is a key to it there somewhere but gods know he doesn’t know what it is. But he does know how closely linked the Stark children are and were to their wolves, if Jon's relationship with his own wolf is any indication. (and he remembers Summer and Bran, all those years ago too). He recalls too, Bran's pained gasp of "Jon!" right before he collapsed. He clears his throat. “There are rumors. About spiders.”

“Aye, that’s what I fought.” Tormund shifts in his seat, his brow knitted together in annoyance. “Fucker was as big as this castle and twice as ugly—no offense,” he adds on at the slightest glimmer of irritation in Sansa’s eyes. “Whatever was out there killed a friend of mine while I slept like a useless suckling babe in a wagon.”

“You were poisoned,” Sam interjects. And from the looks of it, Tormund is still feeling the aftereffects of said poison. The wildling only grunts.

“I’ve had worse. I ever tell you about the time—”

“I spoke with some of the men of the Night’s Watch who came here,” Sansa interrupts, so smoothly that even Tormund doesn’t look disgruntled at not finishing his story. “They think some of your people and some of their men may have skirted around Winterfell to go further south. Or they’ve taken refuge at some of the other holdfasts here in the north. Do you know how many were with you before the attack?”

“Why?” Tormund asks. “They’re not here and we’re a tough lot. A winter storm like this is nothing to the freefolk.”

Sam looks from Sansa to Tormund, sensing that there is something that Sansa is not saying, that she is trying to get Tormund to confirm. Sam thinks about the last few days, taking care of wildling after wildling, tending to injuries and ducking from thrown soup bowls, and listening to the stories of their frantic retreat south. It makes him anxious to get back to his books but he really needs to speak with Sansa or Bran alone—though Bran, once a bastion of knowledge, seems just as lost as any of them with his Sight gone. The boy has worn a distant, contemplative look that is similar but not altogether identical to the blank and emotionless gaze of the Three-Eyed Raven. Sam would love to talk with him about his theories but he guesses that Bran would only sigh and shake his head, a young man with no more power than that granted to him by his House.

“And you’re sure you saw nothing that could bring the Wall down?”

Tormund raises an eyebrow. “I can make up a fancier story if you want.”

“Last time, you said it took a dragon to destroy the Wall by Eastwatch.”

 _Oh_ , Sam thinks, as he finally sees Sansa’s logic and reasoning. Of course. The Wall had stood for eight thousand years, immovable and unyielding, until the corpse of a dragon, being used as a weapon by the very personification of the death and winter itself, blasted a hole in it. And even then, the Wall itself hadn’t collapsed in its entirety. No, Eastwatch was gone, nothing by frozen ruins that had fallen into the sea, but the rest of the Wall continued to stand.

Until now.

Tormund seems to understand too. He sits back in his chair, rubbing at his face. “You think Jon’s dragon queen would fly all the way from your iron throne just to destroy the Wall? What good would that do her, eh? Last I checked, she wanted to rule a kingdom, have you kneelers worship her, and fuck your brother. Maybe in that order, maybe not.”

Sam glances over at Sansa, who is grimacing. “He’s right, you know. One dragon wasn’t enough to bring down the Wall last time anyway.” He pauses, as the puzzle pieces shift beneath his mental fingers. “But I was thinking—you said Ghost warned you, sort of.” He turns to Sansa. “Do you think, maybe, what happened with the Wall lines up with what happened with you and Bran?”

Sansa says nothing. Sam can only make out the slightest tightening of her jaw as any indication of what she is thinking but it is enough. _She has_ , he thinks. For some reason, that only complicates the puzzle—all of these things happening all at once, in any other circumstances, would be mere coincidence. But there is something that itches at the base of Sam’s neck, every time he thinks about it. Things that can’t be explained, things older than time. And all of it winds back to the Starks. 

He thinks once again of Meera’s words: _You should’ve had the Targaryen kill the Night King_. What does that mean? What does any of it mean? Or, does it all mean nothing, and he’s just looking for some common thread to the madness? Here he is, the scholar of the bunch, the one who has read the stories and the legends, but clearly he has not read enough. The Wall is a mystery. The Starks are, suddenly and inexplicably, a mystery.

“What happened to you and the little god?” Tormund asks.

Sansa waves her hand, dismissing the question. “It doesn’t matter. Can you tell me...beyond the spiders, is there anything else out there that we should be concerned with? You’ve seen that we have a skeleton guard here—most of our forces marched south with Jon in order to take King’s Landing. Spiders from beyond the Wall, we can deal with. But if there is anything else…” She trails off, looks away. 

Anything else. Sam knows what this means.

_Standing in the night, the smell of piss and fire in the air, the ground rumbling beneath his feet as something shrieks from the darkness, unseen and growing louder and louder...and then blue eyes, dozens, hundreds, a wave of death and rotting limbs, a nightmare made flesh, screaming from the shadows into the light…_

He shudders...and sees Tormund's usually animated face go completely blank as he looks away. Sam feels something lodge in his throat.

It feels like ice.

 _No_.

“There is,” Sansa says and Sam can hear the exhaustion that she has done so well to hide thread through her tone. “Isn’t there?”

“It’s not like it was before,” Tormund says, his own voice gravelly with exhaustion. “The fuckers were vicious before. Willing to tear your guts out and shove ‘em down your throat. I only came across one. A boy from Hardhome.” (Sam winces here—sometimes he wishes Jon had never told him what happened at Hardhome). “He was dead. Dead as winter itself, with those blue eyes. But he just stood there. He didn’t attack me or trying to rip my heart out through my nose. The one thing that did attack me had eight legs and pinchers. But the boy...well, they told me they burned him. When Beric burned the Umber boy, he shrieked like a newly-blooded crow. They said...they told me he only burned.”

And Sam suddenly knows why Sansa was asking about how many people had survived the fall of the Wall. How many _weren’t_ here in Winterfell? Had they truly found refuge elsewhere in the north? Or...or…

Sam swallows. _The Night King is dead. His generals and armies destroyed._

Winterfell is suddenly a very lonely bastion in the North, miles and miles and miles away from any other city, from any help. And there is nothing except silence from all of the ravens, except for that one small missive, written by an unknown hand from the south. The capital burns. The North freezes. And they are here, in between, on a precipice. 

_No—this is a warning._

The room falls silent. 

Finally Sansa rises, the cool and collected mask back in place. “Thank you for letting me know what happened. I will send Maester Wolkan to your chambers with some milk of the poppy. It will help soothe the fever.” Tormund chuckles wearily.

“Would prefer you send that blonde lass, if you see her. She’s got a sharp tongue but I like a sharp tongue.”

A smile—genuine or not, Sam can’t tell—briefly flashes across Sansa’s face. She nods and departs, leaving Sam alone in the room with the giant wildling who looks in no hurry to wander back to his room. The silence, contemplative when Sansa was there, quickly turns awkward. Sam coughs and Tormund glances across the table at him, with a look of irritated curiosity. “You want to ask me a question too? I’m fresh out of answers. I don’t know what the fuck I saw anymore.”

 _Sansa or Bran would be preferable_ , Sam thinks to himself. Aloud he says, “The wildlings must have their own myths about the Wall, don’t they? Stories you heard growing up that we wouldn’t know here in the Seven Kingdoms?” He pauses. “Sansa thinks the only thing that can bring down the Wall is a dragon. But even a dragon couldn’t bring it down, not even last time.”

Tormund leans forward across the table and gives him a long inscrutable look. Sam pretends he is not completely unnerved by it. “The only stories we told that were worth a damn were the stories of crows like you, fighting us for as long as we remember. Wasn’t until the cold winds started to rise that Mance thought to make peace with you lot. But you tell that story over and over again and what’s it become except truth.” He grins at Sam but there’s no mirth in it. “And look at us now. Good friends on this side of a Wall that decided it wasn’t worth shit anymore and crumbled like a pretty lass’s conviction when she catches sight of my cock.”

 _His fever must still be raging_ , Sam thinks. “Nothing at all? The freefolk have lived beyond the wall for as long as anyone can remember. There must be some stories.”

“None of the stories even came close to what we faced when the winds rose and the dead came,” Tormund retorts, and Sam is taken aback by the sudden heat in his voice. “We survived hell after hell only for it all to come down on us. We told stories of the White Walkers, aye—you live in the North, it's inevitable. All the powers of winter itself and even we freefolk don't want to mess with that. It's death, walking death. So go read your books, crow. And then come back and sing a pretty song for me about the stories and the legends and the godsdamned myths and tell me why any of it matters. What’s eight thousand years to the gods anyway? There aren't any more stories about why than stories you have here in the south. It's all real life and nightmares and every thing they ever told you to be afraid of cawing for your death. Why tell a story when the reality of it is so much worse?”

And Sam remembers the dragons and winter and the stories written in the books, the words and the histories molding together to form incomprehensible nonsense.

_Your memories don't come from books. Your stories aren't just stories._

And Meera's words, damning, elusive, inexplicable: _You should’ve had the Targaryen kill the Night King._

_The other one._

In Sam's mind, the door closes. The key turns.

And the storm outside continues to rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Dreamer, for a King's Landing POV we haven't heard in awhile


	20. The Dreamer

The giant hall that has become their makeshift commons is boisterous long before the suggestion of returning north comes up.

Jon sits among his fellow (ha) northerners as they devour brown bread, cheese, ale, and a red stew thick with peppers, onions, and a rich fatty meat that Jon does not care to identify--he himself had only taken a mouthful of anything before his stomach had churned ominously. He had pushed it all away--ale, bread, cheese, and stew--and sat back from the table, only haphazardly listening to the conversation ebb and flow around him, like the very current of the Blackwater. If anyone notices that he hasn’t taken more than one bite of his food, they don’t comment on it. Davos would have, probably...but Davos is gone, sent to Storm’s End to treat with Gendry Baratheon and sway him to the side of the dragons before Sansa could make her move.

The ever-present thought, along with the knowledge that Arya has vanished into thin air, churns above his head and his heart like a dark cloud. He knows that he has drawn a line, one that he will not, cannot, cross and yet it still burns all the same, this decision. Would everything have been simpler if he had plunged a knife into Dany’s heart? Maybe. Perhaps. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care to think about the heartache and the loss and the self-loathing and the doubt that would have plagued him for the rest of his life. So he stayed his hand and now here they are.

It does not help that he cannot for the life of him get anything resembling a decent night’s sleep, even as his bone-deep exhaustion threatens to become a living breathing tangible thing. It has not even been a fortnight since they conquered the capital, since he made that fateful decision, but it feels that it has been the span of a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once, perhaps because of the dreamlike state the world has turned into--fueled, no doubt, by his fatigue. And perhaps he should feel some guilt in the fact that nearly all of his evenings, ever since that day in the throne room (five days ago? Three? One hundred?), have been spent making intense desperate love to Dany. They are as discreet as the ruins of a great red castle allow them to be, to keep the whispers of the northmen to a minimum, but they come together like the very forces of nature their Houses represent, gasping breaths and whispered promises and bruising kisses, chasing the lightning of release over and over again into the night, until spent and flushed and barely sated, his seed weeping down her thigh, her own marks left on his shoulder where she had bitten down to muffle her screams.

But it is not that which keeps him barely lucid during his waking hours. No, there have been...disturbing dreams that wake him in the darkest part of the night, Dany curled up next to him, fingers splayed across his chest (across his heart). He barely remembers the images when he has managed to shake off the tendrils of the dream (the nightmare?) but the chill that they bring stays with him. He _does_ remember ice...and darkness, and something burning hotter than dragonfire within him, whispering seductively of things he cannot want, cannot possibly even _know_ , dragging him down into the darkness, deeper and deeper and deeper, until he wakes in a cold sweat. And as soon as he opens his eyes, the dream vanishes like the shadows against the rays of dawn.

_I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn…_

He rubs at his face, even as the noise around him gets louder and more enthusiastic, the words lost in a muddle of furious sound that connects to no real words or sentences in his mind. Gods. The cloak he is wearing from before, when he had ventured through the half-collapsed wings of the Red Keep to speak with Tyrion, is far too warm for the common room. And he is tired.

He is so _tired_.

“My lord!”

Jon startles out of his fog with a blink and finds several pairs of eyes focused on him in expectation, as if they have been trying to speak with him for awhile now. The robust dark-haired man who had spoken--one of the men he had placed in charge...Marlon, he thinks the man’s name is--stands in front of him, looking appropriately deferential and far less drunk than his fellow countrymen. Jon grimaces, shaking his head. “Aye?” When the men exchange glances, he waves his hand as an apology. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

The standing man gives him a brief smile of understanding. “No worries. It’s been an eventful few weeks.” He pauses and then glances around him at the other faces that Jon has come to know well over these past few weeks (months? Years?) he has been leading them, first as the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, then as a general, then as a king, and now...and now…

A young girl’s voice, a ghost, one of many.

 _You left Winterfell a king and came back a-- I’m not sure what you are now_.

“My lord?”

Jon lifts his head, taking in a deep steadying breath. “Yes? You were saying?”

The man--yes, it must be Marlon, he thinks--pauses for a moment, giving Jon a long curious look, as if doubting his words are going to be heard this time. Jon gives him a self-deprecating smile that seems to assuage his fears because he finally continues, “The men have been getting restless, my lord. It’s a great victory we’ve won here, surely. But we survived worse back home, what with the army of the dead, and many men want to get home to their wives and their families, to truly mourn their dead and rebuild their land. There’s nothing more for us to do here in the south. The Targaryen queen has won her throne, thanks to us, and we should be able to go back to our own homes now.”

Around him, Jon can hear shouts of “aye!” and “hear, hear!” along with the clanging of mugs of ales and of fists pounding on the tables. It rattles the dormant headache that has been lingering just beyond his knowledge and he hides a wince as it threatens to escalate into a piercing scream. He holds up his hand to quiet the men down. Surprisingly, it works.

“No one is doubting the role that the North played in helping Queen Daenerys win her throne,” he says. “It was a debt repaid in full for her assistance in helping us defeat the Night King and his army--”

“Begging your pardons, my lord,” Marlon interrupts, a glint of something Jon can’t decipher in his eyes as he glances about him at the men hanging on to their every word, “but it was a northerner who defeated the Night King. Your own sister--a Stark of Winterfell.”

There is no speaking over the roar this time, as the men around him--and subsequently the other men in the hall, who needed no reason to join in the revelry--cheer the words and the very knowledge that the end of the world was prevented by one of their own. Dimly, Jon can hear the chant of “Stark! Stark! Stark!” but his mind is already a million miles away, thinking of the young woman--the little sister, grown so tall, so confident, a _stranger_ \--who had dealt the killing blow to the Night King. There is a pinprick of pain just behind his eyes at the thought, the headache threatening to burst into bloom, and he closes his eyes momentarily to block it all out.

And he sees his sister, his beloved little sister, standing in front of the woman he loves, and proclaiming that winter would come for House Targaryen.

_The real war was never to the north. It has always been in the hearts of men._

He is sitting in the ashes of the road he started down years and years ago, when he left Winterfell for the Wall, for Castle Black. His beliefs, the war he thought he had known, the enemy he had seen as being a literal force of nature--all of it, crumbled at his feet, blown away by the very winds of winter he had thought to be more powerful than they turned out to be.

And in front of him, in his mind’s eye: a queen, a woman with hair the color of moonlight and the proud smile of a dragon, standing in ruins of her own making.

He has told both Davos and Tyrion why he made the choice he did, the less than honorable decision (or however honorable it would have been to betray the woman he loves, after already breaking his word to her on the promise and faith that his siblings--his _cousins_ \--would too be honorable with the knowledge of his true parents and choose the path of least resistance). He does not--cannot--regret what he has not done for the sake of the realm, always for the sake of the realm, but there is a haunting quality to it. If the realm bleeds, it is because of what he chose not to do. If the Seven Kingdom divides itself into bloody factions, if the north rises against the south…

 _And the wolves will break and_ kneel.

A flipped coin. Wolves and dragons. Ice and fire.

The ruckus around him has continued to grow louder and louder but he realizes, in the midst of the raucous celebrations, Marlon is still watching him carefully. Jon sighs, trying desperately to clear his thoughts and only halfway succeeding. He gives the man an unconvincing smile. “If you wanted to convince me that the men wanted to go home, you’ve succeeded.”

Marlon doesn’t return the smile. Instead, he glances about him, sees that no one is paying attention anymore, and takes a seat across from Jon. He is quiet for a long moment, peering at Jon as if trying to figure out a puzzle and Jon rather hopes he can at least figure out the fractured political mess he has caused by siding with Dany.

“If you don’t mind me saying so...you look like dogshit, my lord.”

Well. There is also that. Jon laughs ruefully, running his hand through his hair, almost self-consciously. “Never knew the Manderlys to mince their words.”

The other man finally grins. “To be honest, I thought you’d forgotten.” 

Jon only shakes his head and doesn’t say that he _had_ forgotten the man’s House until he caught sight of the minuscule merman sigil embedded on the breast of the man’s jerkin. He assumes he knew it when he gave the man a command but the details of that decision have been lost in the muddled thoughts of his mind, swallowed up by the nebulous passing of time. Instead he says, “House Manderly stood by Robb during the War of the Five Kings. Your House has always been one of House Stark’s staunchest allies and we are indebted to you for allowing us passage through White Harbor.”

Marlon’s lips quirk up in a half-hearted smile. “Pretty words but I know the lie in there. We didn’t stand by you when the Boltons ruled from Winterfell. Perhaps so many good northmen wouldn’t have been lost if we had declared for you instead of waiting to see which way the tides turned.”

Jon is quiet for a long moment, frowning at the man. He does not feel particularly enthused to participate in a game of words that are meant to be a salve over old wounds. The time of the Boltons has come and gone--gods help them if Ramsay had survived long enough to witness the battle against the Night King or if the Night King had circumvented Winterfell altogether to bolster his army with the desecrated corpses that bloated the Dreadfort. The Karstarks and the Umbers had chosen their side and paid for it, yes--but even the attempt to right old wrongs there had only ended with Ned and Alys becoming fodder to the harbinger of winter.

“I cannot hold a man’s past actions against him,” Jon finally murmurs, looking away, “when he stood with my House in the face of walking death. Whatever your House chose to do--or _not_ do--in the battles that have come and gone...when it mattered most, you stood with House Stark. The north remembers, ser. In more ways than one.”

He then looks around him, at the men deep in their cups, now far too distracted with their own stories of heroism and bravery to pay attention to either of them. He glances askance at Marlon. “You did that on purpose.”

Marlon shrugs. “The last thing either of us need is a bunch of bastards drunk on glory they didn’t earn listening to us.” At Jon’s look, Marlon lets out a sharp laugh. “Let’s not pretend that this city was conquered by anything except the queen unleashing her dragon upon the masses. The part we played was so small as to be negligible. The men want to claim it as a great victory for the North but I’m sure that once they put time and distance between them and this, they’ll come to see it for what it really is.”

 _They’ll come to see you for what you are._ Jon braces himself against the table, pushing back from it slightly. “You think it was wrong.”

The other man shakes his head. “Wrong? No. It was going to come to this regardless. The North has been dealt blow after blow from the Lannisters, ever since that boy Joffrey took your father’s head and called it justice. It only worsened after the Red Wedding and the Boltons.” He sighs. “The bells did ring though and I suppose that history will damn us for what we did afterwards. Every decision looks like the only decision in the heat of battle. It takes a better man than most to see more than one outcome.”

“More than one outcome..." Jon murmurs. He leans forward. “Are you making a case for returning to the north, Ser Marlon, or something else? Is that why you wanted to speak more privately?”

The knight does not look at all abashed. “When this is all settled and done, my lord, who is going to rebuild King’s Landing? We northerners are not going to help in building up what we just tore down. These...soldiers of the queen. They are eastern savages and eunuchs--a remarkable fighting force, to be sure, but they are not Westerosi and they are not builders or crofters or politicians. You cannot rebuild a kingdom on the back of an army alone. It takes all sorts, the sorts that our new queen does not have at her disposal.” He meets Jon’s eyes squarely, as if trying to determine something. “And aye, I can see it in your eyes. You know this too. She could have the sorts that the North would give her but she’s too proud to ask.”

 _What will you have me do_ , Jon thinks, glancing around the room. He thinks that people believe he has more control of the North than he truly does. Yes, they named him king but that was before everything. It is a generous suggestion though, what the knight is saying. The North could very well supply Dany with the skills she needs to rebuild her kingdom, to create a reborn dynasty from the ashes of the very people who had stolen her family’s pride and power. But if not, then of course--there is no reason for the northern army to stay here. They have done their part--and Dany cannot say that they have not, when they marched all this way to help.

But there is a boon.

Jon rises to his feet slowly, struggling to hide a grimace. Some of the men raise a cup to him, their attention briefly swayed from their ale by his motion. He stays silent for a long moment, pressing his fingers against the table, wanting to crack in two, to render the entire hall silent and dark of the boisterous laughter and conversation. It is his decision to make, isn’t it? Even if he struggles against it, it will always come back to _him_ and what _he_ decides.

Gods.

“I will discuss it with the queen,” he finally says. Marlon frowns and opens his mouth to argue but Jon shakes his head, cutting him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “You said the men are getting restless, that there’s nothing more to be done here. That is not my decision to make and neither is it yours, ser. Queen Daenerys will decide how we should proceed.”

Marlon raises an eyebrow at Jon. “Aye, that’s true enough...but I’ve seen the way she looks at you, my lord. Are you sure you cannot convince her otherwise, if she decides we’re to be the ones told to be put the capital back together after she knocked it down.” At Jon’s glare, Marlon only smiles--it is not mocking though there is something in his eyes that Jon decidedly does not like. “I remember the last time a Stark and a Targaryen decided to change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. Led to war and the downfall of one of their Houses. Maybe you two can get it right. She’ll need someone like you if she intends to convince the rest of the Kingdom that she’s not her father’s daughter. Especially after--”

“Stop.”

He doesn’t raise his voice in anger. He doesn’t take a threatening step towards the Manderly knight. But clearly there is something like ice and steel in his voice, something that might even take him aback if he stops to think about it, that causes Marlon to pull up short, to blink and blanche in surprise, at that one simple word. Jon closes his eyes, ignoring the pounding pain in his skull that flared at the mention of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He lets out a breath and counts slowly to ten before opening his eyes and giving the knight a curt nod before slipping through the exuberant and drunk crowd towards the exit. He can feel the man’s eyes on his retreating back.

Jon does not care.

He finds Dany in a corridor that has had its end completely blasted away from dragonfire and is now coated with a thin layer of snow. She is stepping out of a room closer to the inner corridor, away from the snow, closing the door behind her, and he can see, just before the door shuts, the still form of Grey Worm, laid out on a cot, the bandages about his torso spotted with blood. He does not see if there is anyone attending to him, does not know who, beyond the healer that came along with the northmen, could very well have the skills for it. 

The door latches with a click, and Dany turns to face him. Her hair is pulled back into a simple braided tail, the complicated hairstyles she favored before now gone with the death of her best friend. She looks grim, if not haggard, her face pale and her jaw clenched against the troubles that have landed on her shoulders ever since she conquered the city. Still, she meets his eyes evenly, and he watches as the stiff set of her shoulders relaxes minutely. But she doesn’t walk towards him.

Jon glances past her, to the recently closed door. “How is he?”

“Stable,” she replies. She looks behind her at the snow and an unreadable expression akin to sadness washes cross her face. “Will it ever stop?”

“I don’t know,” Jon remarks honestly. Tyrion had mentioned, yesterday perhaps, how odd it is to see snow so far south and especially a snow that does not seem to have any intention of melting any time soon. He can see Dany’s breath in the coolness of the hall, realizing her sleeveless cloak is woefully inadequate for the weather. But she does not shiver as she continues gazing at the silent snowfall and the broken towers just beyond. “The snows in the north can last for weeks.”

“It seemed to be getting warmer.” Her voice is quiet. “And now winter has come back.”

Jon says nothing for awhile, knowing from her tone of voice that she isn’t speaking of the weather. Since that day--and he has heard the men speaking of it, their voices hushed lest he overhear and report back to the queen, calling it the Day of the Dragon, and something in him is sharp with pain and frustration when he hears it--she has been quiet, almost lost, moving as if in a dream. They both have. It is only the nights that bring any reprieve to this hazy state of existence, this waiting for something, anything, to burn and collapse and bring their world down in ash and smoke.

He approaches her, even as she continues staring down the corridor to the snow and a day that is piercingly bright despite the fall of snow. “We received a raven from Sunspear,” he hears her say, though it seems more to herself than to him. She sounds distracted. “One of the Sand Snakes is coming here, in lieu of the prince. Sarella, the message said. I should be angry. I should think that he means to insult me by sending a bastard niece here in his stead. But…”

She trails off and doesn’t continue for so long that Jon quietly prompts, “Dany?”

The stiffness returns to the set of her shoulders and when she turns back towards him, she doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she brushes past him in the opposite direction of the snow, her stride suddenly quick and angry. Jon has no choice but to follow her, after one more glance at the door that Dany’s Master of War is behind.

Their pace is brisk but silent as Dany leads them through the twisting maze of the ruined halls of the Red Keep, eventually emerging into one of the rubble-strewn courtyards next to what Tyrion had informed him was once Maegor’s Holdfast. Broken walkways crisscross along the border of the courtyard, the tumbled debris from many of them creating small mountains of sharp tattered edges, caked with ash and dust, throughout the courtyard itself. The two dragons are here, Rhaegal clearly having just arrived, his green-and-bronze wings batting at the air from and sending up small little whirlwinds of snow and ash. Drogon lays curled up just beyond him, his black-scaled bulk iced with snow. As they approach, one of his eyes opens and he gives all three of them a look that seems disgruntled at best, letting out an irritated snort of sparks and steam. He lifts his head slightly as his brother lets out a muted growl, craning his neck down to receive a gentle stroke along his snout from his mother. 

But Dany doesn’t stop. As Jon quickens his pace, her name on the tip of his tongue, she lifts herself up onto Drogon’s back, her gaze so distant that he doubts she even hears when he calls her name. Before Jon can even reach her, Drogon is already crouched down, spreading his massive black and red wings to nearly encompass the entire courtyard...and then they’re both gone, taking to the skies for the first time since the fall of the city. 

Jon curses under his breath as Rhaegal cranes his neck upwards, making a distressed sound at being left behind, adjusting his massive body to take off after his mother and brother. Despite his exhaustion, he manages to vault up onto Rhaegal’s back just as the dragon growls again, his scales almost too warm to touch, and, with a powerful beat of his wings, takes to the air, and it is all Jon can do to hold on. King’s Landing spirals away below, a charred husk of its former greatness, some fires still burning even now, days and days and days later. The snow has covered everything within miles in a pure blanket of white, obscuring the death and destruction that lies beneath. Up here, in the swirling fall of snow, there is no stench of rotting bodies and burned flesh, and, once they break through the pale gray gloom, only miles and miles of clean blue sky and a rolling landscape of clouds as far as the eye can see.

It is far colder up here than it is below and Jon grits his teeth against it, as the wind whistling over Rhaegal’s neck and head batters him with its intensity. In comparison, the beast’s too-warm flesh is nearly a welcome reprieve ( _cold drowned flesh made hot enough to burn away muscle and bone, rising from the sea with a shriek, and a ringing in his head as he kisses her, burn burn burn_ ). Ahead, he can see the dark form of Drogon, rising and falling against the wind. It is too far to shout for Dany--he doesn’t dare try.

He loses track of how far and how long they fly--the land below is obscured beneath the thick cloud cover so he cannot judge the distance from King’s Landing. The cold winter sun seems suspended in time, just like these past several days, as if the entire world is waiting to see what the Dragon Queen will do next, an impossible impasse when she herself seems so lost. Before, there was always a goal--destroy the Night King, overthrow Cersei, take the throne--and the prices paid to get there have been nothing short of devastating. 

_Because I know what it is good._

_And so do you._

Drogon suddenly plummets out of the sky in a dive so steep that Jon clenches his teeth when Rhaegal does the same, the entire world in the sky rushing past him in a howling gut-churning drop. He remembers the fight against the Night King and Viserion, the battle in the sky over Winterfell and the sheer futility of their whole plan, the winds and the cold, all of it falling to pieces around them until they were both on the ground, bruised and bloodied and useless against the army of the dead and the White Walkers. There is a chill in him still, an anger and frustration that has not quite been quenched--how many years had he waited, had he heralded this inevitable something, only to fail again and again and again, once the darkness finally arrived?

 _It was a northerner who defeated the Night King. Your own sister--a Stark of Winterfell_.

Far below, he sees the ice-strewn plains of the riverlands, the rolling hills covered in snow and frost. There are ruins here too, ages older than those in King’s Landings--these are the remaining corpses of the War of the Five Kings, the battles which had devastated the riverlands worst of all. Ahead, Drogon glides lower and lower to the ground and up ahead, Jon sees what is possible Dany’s destination: a vast lake, large enough that he can’t see its far shore in the wintery haze. In the midst of it, rising from the glassy silver-gray expanse, is a small island that, from afar, looks as if it is ablaze with fire and it is only upon squinting through the haze that Jon realizes, with some surprise, that it is an island that is nearly choking with weirwoods.

Something in Jon stirs in recognition but he knows--he _knows_ \--he has never been here before. 

Something _burning_ in his chest…

He fights a wave of dizziness and eyes the island with some apprehension as Rhaegal glides down to the shores of the lake next to Drogon, who is already shaking off the snow plowed up by his own landing. As he jumps down from Rhaegal’s back, he sees that Dany has also dismounted, still woefully under-dressed in her sleeveless dress and cloak, and is standing on the shores of the lake, her arms wrapped around her middle as she stares out at the red island just beyond. 

Jon approaches her cautiously and silently save for the crunch of snow beneath his boots and without provocation, removes his cloak and drapes it across her shoulders. She doesn’t shrug it off but neither does she truly acknowledge it. She continues staring out at the island, pale and shivering and completely ignoring his presence. They stand in silence for several moments, the only sound around them the quiet gusts of winter winds and the snuffling of both dragons.

Finally, Jon gives her a sidelong look. “Dany..."

“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, brittle. “Just... _don’t_.”

Before he may have acquiesced to her response. Before he may have simply nodded his head in agreement--she is his queen after all, to say and do as she pleases. He has said the words so often that it is nearly a brand on his tongue, an excuse under the guise of subservience. 

He doesn’t do that this time.

“ _Talk_ to me, Dany,” he says quietly, firmly. She does not look at him, even as he turns to face her. He sighs. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“These are the riverlands,” Dany retorts angrily. “It is not _nowhere_. People died here. While I was wandering the Red Waste, your brother and the false kings waged war for the crown and people died here. Did you see the scorched farms we passed? The empty villages? How long do you think they’ve been gone? Years? Months? Weeks? Did they die during that war? Or maybe when they heard about the eastern whore bringing her savages from the north, they fled to the capital. Maybe they died when...when I..." She stops then, shivering, sinking into his cloak. There is a hollow note in her voice when she speaks again. “You told me once, a lifetime ago, that I would rule over a graveyard if we did not defeat the Night King. And we did--we defeated him. And I am still ruling over a graveyard.”

“Dany..."

“I was supposed to show _mercy_ , Jon,” she spits out, wrapping his cloak tighter around herself. Behind them, he can hear the soft growling from the dragons, as if they can sense their mother’s distress. “I said I would not be a queen of ashes...and then I slaughtered a city. A city that had _surrendered_. What did the men and women and children within the city do? They were commonfolk. Maybe they lived in the villages we passed. Maybe they were just scared, of Cersei, of me, of all of us. And now they’re gone. They’re dead and burned because I...because I couldn’t...because I _didn’t_ …”

She stops, as if choking on her own words, and Jon realizes she is not so much shivering from the cold as she is from her own emotional battle, her hands gripping his cloak and her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if to contain the multitude of everything--the fire, the fury, the loss, the hate--boiling up within her. She hasn’t spoken of it since then, not like this. Her words have always been in terms of power, how people would look to him as a better alternative--she has not once spoken of that day in terms of the people lost, in terms of the very act she committed and its consequences.

Jon has no words for this. He cannot absolve her of what she did--by not burying a dagger in her heart he has proven where his loyalties lie far more succinctly than thousands of pretty words and vows can. But he knows that woman whom he bent the knee to, the woman who had allowed him to mine dragonglass with no promise from him that he would ever support her claim for the throne. The woman who had raced north to save him and the others from a thrice-damned mission. The woman who had plunged into battle at Winterfell the moment she saw her people threatened.

This was not the woman who brought a deadly inferno to an entire city.

And _that_ woman is not the one standing next to him now.

Even as his head pounds from the weariness that plagues him like a shadow, he knows why he made the decision he did. And he takes a step closer to Dany, pulling her towards him, feeling her shivering beneath his touch.

“I have never felt that sort of rage before,” Dany whispers. “When the bells rung, it was as if something inside of me was ripping me apart, that wanted them all dead. Even when Varys and Tyrion betrayed me, even when I lost Ser Jorah and Viserion and Missandei...even when I lost all of them, it was nothing compared to what I felt in that moment. It burned. Gods, it _burned_ , Jon. I wanted them to go down into hell screaming-- _all_ of them. It was bigger than me, bigger than anything I’ve ever known. And once it was over..."

_Did she sound like someone who’s done fighting?_

He remembers then what came afterwards: her rushed and desperate words in the throne room. The almost surreal tone of her voice, as if she was breaking through the surface of something darker and more powerful than she could ever be. 

And he had stayed his hand.

“How could I look back? If I looked back, if I stopped to _think_...I should be angry with the Prince of Dorne. But I can’t. I can’t do it.” She pulls away from him then, her eyes wide and frantic and darting. “What if it comes back? What if that rage comes back and I can’t control it again? What if they were right? What if I _am_ his daughter? I swore to _protect_ them, Jon. And I killed them. I killed them. And I don’t know _why_...I don’t…”

“Hey. _Hey_.” Jon grasps Dany’s face between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. He sees the fear running rampant in her bright blue eyes, sees the uncertainty that he knows that they both have tried to bury beneath fucking and silence. Tyrion’s words hang as a noose of condemnation over them both, as well as Arya vanishing into the wind. But he cannot think of that right now, not when he sees the woman he has come to admire--the woman he loves--quite literally trying to hold herself together. “Listen to me. Dany. _Dany_. Listen. I can’t explain what happened that day. I don’t know...this rage that consumed you, I can’t explain that. But I do know _you_. I know the sort of woman you are.”

Dany starts to shake her head, still shivering, but Jon does not--cannot--let her. He strokes her cheek with his thumb. “I bent the knee to you because you have a good heart. You remember what I said on Dragonstone? That people believed in you because you made the impossible happen? You are still that woman.” He sees her about to protest, the weight of her actions darkening her eyes, but he continues before she can speak. “If you truly believe that you are capable of doing that again, would you admit it? If it was even a possibility, you wouldn’t stand here and tell me. You’d bury it. Justify it. But you’re not. Because you’re still the queen who broke the chains of slaves, who flew to the north to save strangers, who risked her life to protect innocents. You’re still her. You haven’t changed. You haven’t been lost.”

Does that erase the bodies that still litter the streets of King’s Landing? Does that bring them back to life, as Rhaegal has been brought back? Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so. If he thinks of this in terms of balance and scales and forgiveness, he will never draw himself from the darkness of Dany’s actions. 

Past her head, he sees the crimson-red leaves of the weirdwoods, frosted with ice and snow. That something tingles and burns in the center of his chest, itching as if it wants to burst through, cracking him in two.

Winter winds. Dragonfire. _The light that brings the dawn._

Into the darkness.

“Your sister won’t see it that way,” Dany says quietly, almost with a note of resignation in her voice. Her head rests against Jon’s shoulder--she cannot see the troubled look in his eyes as he gazes past her at the island overflowing with weirwoods. “If she’s anything like Tyrion, she’ll damn me forever because of what I’ve done.”

Jon sighs. “You need to tell Tyrion.”

“He won’t listen. He’s already made up his mind about me. From the moment they knew about you, they started doubting. And look at me--I only proved them right.” But she doesn’t pull away. He can almost feel her slump in his arms, as if the anger and the fight and the horror has gone out of her, as if the same weariness that has buried itself in Jon’s bones has now settled on her. “How can I be a queen this way? How can I rightfully call myself the protector of the realm?”

“You start again.” Jon pulls away from her slightly, holding her at arm’s length. “And you start by speaking with Tyrion. And I’ll...I’ll talk with Sansa.”

Dany looks at him with something akin to incredulity. “You think either of them will care to listen to what we have to say? How many times have you already made your point clear to Sansa? She won’t listen.”

 _And the wolves will_ kneel.

Jon bites back a grimace, feeling as if his heartbeat is pounding behind his eyes. The island bleeds red in the distance. “It’s not about convincing. But I need to speak with her.” He thinks of the girl who loved lemon cakes and the woman with ice in her veins she had grown to become ( _we never should have left Winterfell_ ). The small burning in his chest flickers at the thought of Winterfell and the north. He ignores it. “And Tyrion...he may understand more of what happened than you give him credit for. He knows something happened but he doesn’t know what exactly. Tell him.”

Dany steps away from him and she looks as if she is ready to argue, as if she is ready to point out how many times, over and over and over again, that Tyrion failed her. But Jon watches as she clenches her jaw before giving him a brief nod. She is about to shrug out of his cloak, to hand it back to him, but Jon shakes his head. “Keep it. I’ll return shortly.” When she hesitates, he gives her a small smile and adds, “I promise.”

And then she has reached towards him, cupping his cheek in her hand. “You promise.” She hesitates only for a moment before quietly whispering, “Come home to me, Jon Snow” and turning on her heel and walking back towards Drogon. Moments later, the dragon has spread its wings and taken to the air and soon they are disappearing behind the clouds, south towards King’s Landing. 

South towards the unknown.

Jon stands at the shore for a moment longer, tearing his gaze away from the horizon long after Dany and Drogon have disappeared, feeling the whisper and promise of home on his tongue. 

_Come home to me, Jon Snow_. 

It tastes warm and sweet.

And yet, when he glances back at the island, standing proudly in the middle of the lake, the scarlet leaves of the weirwoods shivering in the wind, he cannot help the sense of unease and familiarity that claws at his heart. He remembers his dreams and the darkness, the poisonous and seductive whispers of something... _something_ …

In the shadow of the Iron Throne, he remembers a kiss.

And the world tearing itself asunder.

Darkness. Sorcery. And a dragon rising from the sea.

_Only death can pay for life._

He glances once more at the distant weirwoods, feeling the coldness of winter and the snow that is his namesake seeping into his bones. But there is something more to it, he is sure, something that is just beyond his power of understanding. And if he peers too hard, if he reaches for that darkness beyond the flat expanse of the lake towards the copse of trees, he will see...he will see…

Jon tears his eyes away and turns around, walking briskly through the snow towards the green dragon impatiently waiting to take off towards the skies. The warmth beneath his hands is a welcome reprieve to the cold, even as he feels it struggle to settle into his very core.

And then they too are gone, heading north. Away from the riverlands. Away from the weirwood lake. 

To Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay--computer issues and a longer-than-usual chapter. Also if anyone has any theories as to who was braiding Dany's hair after Missandei died, I'm open to hear them because I'm drawing a blank.
> 
> Next chapter: The Storyteller - it's Bran Bot 2.0!


	21. The Storyteller

Bran dreams and dreams and _dreams_ and the stranger with his brother’s face does not return. 

The images he sees now are muddled things, glimpses of gray memory and half-recalled thought, of places he has been as a boy and people he may or may not know whose faces mold and shift and change before he can place a name to their existence. He chases them every night, searching for the man who looks like Robb, looking for the one real solid being in the hazy and mercurial dreamscapes. But try as he might, he cannot find him in the cold and the darkness. So he awakens, every morning, with the dull throbbing pain of a headache just at his temple, as if his Sight, muted and broken as it is, has been escalating in power while he sleeps. 

And yet, he continues to awaken to dour mornings brimming with snow and he cannot See and he cannot walk and he cannot fly.

His temper runs short in the days before and after the wildlings descend onto Winterfell in an exhausted, half-frozen panic. The surly words that fly off his tongue have most people walking cautiously around him—except for Sansa, who only frowns at his suddenly sour mood but seems to understand the root of it more than anyone. If there is anyone he can and should talk to about this problem, he thinks it would be her—but Sansa is busy with her duties as the Lady of Winterfell, caring for the wildlings while keeping a shrewd eye south for news from King’s Landing. Ever since the raven arrived—the raven that carried an impossible message ( _a warning by provocation_ )—Bran can sense the tension, fear, and worry gripping his older sister, even as they became more and more barricaded by the ever-falling snow.

He spends many days in his own head, trying to sort out the punctured memories that refuse to coalesce into anything resembling sense. The stranger’s words keep coming back to him, about how his power is a not a gift in the way he has been using it, a curse that came with a cost Bran did not know he would have to pay. Meera sits with him most of the time, talking through his memories from the fall of Winterfell to the time spent with the Three-Eyed Raven, and although Bran suspects that she wants to hit him or yell at him for most of the time they are together, she seems to settle for glaring at him and telling him that he is very stupid. 

Somehow it makes him feel better.

Bran wants to talk to Meera’s father as well but Lord Howland finds himself busied with helping with the wildlings. Sam relays messages between the two of them but even Sam himself is scarce, as he helps Maester Wolkan take care of the sick and injured amongst the masses. So he spends his days with Meera, trying not to feel completely useless with his thoughts scattered and vague, gone and gone, blasted away by the winds of the north and the south. Meera only allows his self-pity for a few moments before rolling her eyes.

Strangely enough, it is when Bran has stopped looking for the stranger—and when the winter winds and the snow and the ice finally calm for a night—that the man arrives again in his dream.

He doesn’t notice at first, until the dreamscape itself starts to rearrange itself into blurry detail. The churning colorless mists become an idea of stone and the darkness underfoot could almost be marble dappled with moonlight—but it is _almost_ and _not quite_ and very strange, as if he is peering at a world sunken beneath dark waters. His legs are strong beneath him but the world and the dream itself still waver, as if trying to pull itself into form but being interrupted over and over and over again. He looks around him in confusion...and finally sees him.

The stranger’s hood is down so it is automatically Robb’s face he sees and he still cannot help the sharp ache that pierces him when he sees his brother’s face—the reddish stubble, the dark auburn hair so similar to Sansa’s, the Tully blue eyes. But there is _something_ in his eyes, something remote and strange and distant, that is so wholly unlike Robb that it altogether shatters the illusion that this ghost of a sibling is truly the brother he lost. 

It also does not help that the stranger is no longer wearing the furs and cloak and sword belt of the young man who had so briefly been king but instead the blacks of the Night’s Watch.

Still, Bran hesitates for only three seconds before his face twists into a glower and he reaches out to shove the stranger as hard as he can.

“Where have you _been_?”

To his annoyance, the man with Robb’s face barely budges. He does offer Bran a small grimace of apology, as the gray darkness around them almost—but not quite—morphs into something resembling a corridor. “I am sorry, little brother—it was not my intention to be gone for so long. The storm prevented me from reaching you.”

“The storm?”

“Did you not sense it?” At Bran’s baffled look, the stranger frowns. “The winds bring winter with them. You have seen this before--in your memories, not your greensight. It has been like this ever since the Wall collapsed and chased the wildlings to you, ever since the power of darkness and night and the old gods flared.” The man then looks about him, to the tumultuous mists that surround them, trying desperately to meld into recognizable shapes and shadows. “I have no power when the winter winds are like this, when the old gods scream their revenge. Not anymore.”

 _Not anymore._ Bran stares at the stranger. “You’re wearing the blacks of the Night’s Watch. But you told me I knew you once. Tell me who you are.”

The man smiles sadly and shakes his head. “As I have said, I have no power when the old gods are howling. And there is power in a name, power enough to draw their attention to me, to _you_. I cannot do this, not yet.”

Bran’s mind races and he too looks around at the darkness and the shadows, the forms of nothingness that surround him in silence, bubbling into memory and then vanishing just as quickly. _There is power in a name_ , he thinks before glancing back at the stranger. Before he can voice his thoughts, the nameless man must sense the question in his eyes because he says, “If you think it is not true, then must I remind you of a name you once spoke to the young Tarly lord?”

“A name I once..." Bran begins but then stutters to a halt. His eyes widen. “You mean _Jon_?”

_It’s your choice._

The memory—sunken and sharp and bitter—blazes to the front of his mind with such intensity that Bran nearly staggers. He is only vaguely aware of the stranger gripping his arm to keep him from falling to the ground, even as he grits his teeth against the sudden pain blossoming in his skull. He squeezes his eyes shut, as he remembers the godswood and his siblings, standing where so many had fallen mere days earlier. He remembers Sansa’s cool disgust of the queen’s claims to the throne and Arya’s matter-of-fact dismal of the foreigners and Jon’s vehement if blinded arguments in favor of the woman he loved. And then…

And then...

And then he is _there_ , standing beneath the rain of crimson leaves of the giant weirwood, looking down at _himself_. He stands behind Jon, hearing the faint whistling of wind through the godswood, looking at himself and his sisters, seeing the faint looks of consternation on their faces as they step towards Jon. He can hear their words as clearly as if this was not a memory at all but happening truly, right now, not lost to the regretful stains of time.

“You’re just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us,” Sansa murmurs, her brow furrowed, faint hurt in her voice that Jon is seemingly still viewing himself as an outsider after everything they’ve all been through. Arya’s face is an open book—there is concern and love and mild distress on her marred, injured face. 

“You’re my brother. Not my half-bastard or my bastard brother. My _brother_.”

If he reaches out, Bran feels as if he can almost touch the tension radiating from Jon, the uncertainty and hesitation. And when he looks over at himself...he sees nothing. There is not a flicker of emotion on the Raven’s face—on _his_ face—as he knows Jon looks to him, for some sort of reassurance, some sort of argument again this decision that would damn his queen. The Raven would know. How could the Raven _not_ know?

Possibilities. Roads. Choices.

Bran takes an uncertain step backwards.

“It’s your choice.”

 _It’s not_ , Bran thinks. _How could I...there was never a choice. All I had to say was no. All I had to tell him was remember...he had to remember something, I know. He told her something, told her a promise, I know he did._ But his past self says nothing, only leaves the inevitable choice—no, no, there was never a chance—to Jon. Jon, who is too damned honorable and trusting for his own good, who of course would never hold a secret of this magnitude from his beloved siblings.

Never.

Possibilities. Roads. _Choices_.

Fire and ice.

“Tell them.”

“No!” Bran shouts, unable to stop himself, reaching for Jon…

...and suddenly staggering back from the blow of a warhammer.

The godswood vanishes abruptly enough to make Bran’s head spin, even as he struggles to catch his breath—no, not _his_ breath. He can feel sweat dripping beneath his plated armor, feels the weight of a sword in his hand. A pulsing pain comes from his left side that nearly takes his breath away and he struggles to regain his footing—but he is sitting astride a war horse that rears away from the warhammer. He watches, in surprise and dismay as his arm lifts to block another blow from the man in front of him. All around him, Bran can hear the shouts of men—enraged and dying—and the screams of their horses all around, the tumultuous and deafening banging of steel against steel, the gurgling noises of blood bubbling up from the throats of the dead and dying. He smells death and piss and dirt and...water, running red and brown with blood, can taste the salty tang of it on his tongue...

He looks in front of him again, seeing the man pause to lift his warhammer but not quite bring it down, reining in his own mount to spin around. The black horse whinnies loudly and Bran can suddenly see, beneath the hooves of the beasts, the flowing waters of the banks of a river. His own arm pauses. His mouth forms around words, echoing within his helm.

“Robert, stop this madness!”

 _Robert_ , Bran thinks in confusion, even as weariness seeps into his muscles. And then he sees into the shadows of the stag helm, sees a face that is somehow both familiar and completely alien to him.

 _Gendry_?

No...no, not Gendry. The blue eyes are filled with a rage and hatred that Bran cannot ever recall being in the eyes of the young blacksmith, the face bearded and streaked with blood, sweat, and dirt. The man’s face twists in a hellish mask of fury before he spurs his horse forward again, his eyes blazing with an infernal light.

“She was _mine_!” The voice from within the stag helm does not so much shout as thunder out from within its confines as the warhammer descends again. Bran finds his arm lifting again to block and, if he had control of his own voice, would have shouted in surprise as the blow of it travels all the way down his arm in a lightning strike of jarring pain. But instead, his body adjusts its position on the war horse, deflecting the worst of the blow down the length of the sword and causing the horse to scream in nervous fury.

“She told you!” his voice is shouting over the din, even as the sword darts forward again, swiping at the flank of the other man’s horse, missing by a mere hair. “She told you why! _Robert_!”

The hammer glances off his shoulder with a clang of metal on metal, and Bran grimaces as the blow unbalances him—or at least his body—momentarily. He sees those eyes again, those furious blue eyes. But there is a moment of stillness, a moment that Bran feels holds the weight of the world in it—he can feel his heart thundering, louder than the sounds of war around him.

“You fucking dragons,” the man in front of him seethes. “Taking what doesn’t belong to you and burning the rest. Did she cry when you took her? When you told her that her father was burned alive, her brother strangled to death? Or..." The warhammer is raised again and the world becomes _red_ with fire and blood and death, grabbing him around the neck and crushing the air out of his lungs. “Did she scream when you fucking raped her half a hundred times? Did she? _She...was...MINE_!”

On that final word, the hammer descends and...

And he is standing in a sunlit hallway, in the path of two women who walk towards him, arm-in-arm. One of them reminds him of Arya somehow, an upturned nose and a faint smile of mischief flashing across her face. A blue rose is pinned into her braided crown of dark hair and there is a glowing flush across her cheek, the source of which is easy to pinpoint—her belly is just faintly rounded beneath the soft gray drapery of her dress. Still, despite the presence of a cheeky smile, there is something wan about her appearance—darkness looms over her like a cloud and there are dark shadows beneath her eyes.

The other woman has the dusky-skinned look of a Dornishwoman, thin and frail-looking but extraordinarily pretty. Her own jet black hair falls in a tumble of curls over her shoulder, nearly the same color as her riding cloak. Gold winks from her ears and her throat, but it is almost dull compared to the bright shine of shrewd kindness in the woman’s eyes. She is speaking in a hushed voice, her accent lyrical to Bran’s ears.

“—cannot stay long, my dearest. It is a blessing that we even had this. Aerys grows more and more paranoid by the day.”

The pale woman nods, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. “I sent letters. To Robert and Father. I tried to explain, to tell them..." She shakes her head. “I tried, Elia. I did.”

“Our husband is too stubborn for his own good,” the other woman replies quietly, as Bran reels. She— _Elia Martell_ , he realizes with numb shock—pats her companion’s hand in a soothing gesture. “I still don’t understand it myself. I thought he was foolish for it, for all of it. And a thousand and one explanations can never explain this away. Perhaps once this nonsense is over and done with, we will corner him for a better explanation, hmm? The man can be quite rash, especially when love is involved...though I suppose he is a rather decent lover.”

“I hear so little news here,” the pale young woman says. “Have you heard anything from Brandon?”

Elia shakes her head. “No. He was supposed to be making his way to Riverrun to marry the Tully girl. But I think he heard about you.”

In response, the pale young woman only puts her hand over her belly protectively, jutting her chin out in defiance. “He would never listen to me. I tried telling Ned, before Harrenhal, but he was still moping over Ashara.”

That earns her a laugh from Elia. “Well, once this is said and done, I will tell Ashara to give your poor brother a chance. He is far too serious, you know.”

Bran watches as they pass him. The pale young woman cannot be more than a few months along in her pregnancy but there is a part of him that shudders at this information, a part of him that has heard this story before. He cannot for the life of him figure out if it is his own muddled memory or the stories he heard before everything but he knows this woman and he knows this tale, the very tale of how all of the pieces fell into place before he or any of his siblings were born, during the dark days of a rebellion.

He watches as his aunt walks by him, her hand gently cradling her belly and the babe— _Jon—_ that she carries. For a brief moment, their eyes meet but she is staring past him at something he cannot see and he knows that she cannot see him at all.

“Don’t make fun of him, Elia,” Lyanna Stark chides. “You know more poor Ned has been trying to speak to Ashara for months now.”

Elia giggles and pokes at Lyanna’s belly. “If only he had Rhaegar’s forthrightness—he could have had a baby in Ashara’s belly as quickly as it took Rhaegar to woo you.”

“Elia!”

The Martell woman’s smile turns a shade sadder and she leans forward to place a soft kiss against Lyanna’s temple. “We will get this all sorted, my love. Rhaegar says the dragon must have three heads and three heads it shall have. My Rhaenys and Aegon and your...have you come up with a name yet?”

“A name?” Lyanna replies, looking a bit startled. She shakes her head, glancing down at her belly. Ahead of them, a man turns a corner. He has a harried and haunted look on his face that causes something in Bran’s stomach to drop to the floor. He wills himself to move forward, to reach out to his aunt and the former princess of Dorne, but it is as if his feet are rooted to the floor, to be damned to only observe these ghosts of the past who could not know how brutally their ends would come and how soon. His mouth feels dry even as Lyanna continues, “No. Perhaps for a girl but I cannot think of anything for a son.”

“Well,” Elia says with a warm smile as the man rushes up to them, his face strained. “You will have to be a little creative. Theirs will be a song of ice and fire.” She turns her attention towards the man and Bran tries, he tries to reach them, tries to change this, tries to do anything to blot out the ink of history that has already dried, but he cannot...he _cannot_...

His lips move. The sunlight flickers.

Lyanna screams.

And then Bran is stumbling, once again, in the darkness. The stranger is already at his side, holding his arm to steady him. “Careful now.”

Bran’s head swims and he swallows hard against the bile bubbling up in his throat. He bends over, hands on his knees, struggling to take in a breath. “What...I thought...no no no..."

The stranger sighs. There is an odd note in the noise and Bran turns his head—cautiously, so as not to aggravate his sudden headache even more—and sees that his brother’s face is strained and pale, his jaw clenching and unclenching even as he helps Bran straighten. Their eyes meet and the stranger smiles, even though Bran can tell that it is forced. “I told you. I have very little power when the old gods rage. Showing you anything is...difficult.”

Bran stares at him, as pieces of the strange puzzle fall into place. “You’re a greenseer.” 

The man purses his lips together as Bran manages to finally stand, even if he feels somewhat shaky on the ever-shifting blackness underfoot. “Not truly. Not anymore.”

“But you were?” Bran narrows his eyes at this stranger, this supposed friend with a brother’s face. “You said I knew you once. I’ve only known two other greenseers.” Poor Jojen, dead and gone and far too young, and his mysterious predecessor, the wizened old man who taught him and warned him and...

_There has only ever been one House in Westeros so closely associated with fire._

The words echo loudly in Bran’s memory. There is so much about the mysterious man in front of him that he simply does not know. He comes and goes with the gales of winter, bringing words of warning and images of the past and cryptic sayings, never quite fully explaining himself, hiding away from the power of the old gods. It makes him uncomfortable and the fact that he dons Robb’s face to tell him these things only makes Bran want to run as far away from him as possible.

But there is another part of him, a part burning with curiosity, that wants to know more, that wants to unravel the secret placed before him. The Wall has fallen. The winds of night and winter are rising once again. The power of the Night King is not yet gone. And the old gods are screaming their revenge...against whom? Against humanity? Against the Starks themselves? Against the powers of fire that imprisoned them so very long ago, or the girl who stole faces who shattered the Children’s tool and enemy with the thrust of a single blade?

He remembers his conversation with Ser Brienne. There is power here, in the form of knowledge of things not yet revealed...or perhaps in things as clear as day but indecipherable to him without his Sight. The man is the key but he speaks in riddles and half-answers, demure answers to confounding questions. 

And now there are these images—the godswood of Winterfell, a blood-soaked battlefield on the Trident, a sun-dappled corridor in Dorne. Connected somehow (the last of the Starks, a dragon prince, a Dornish princess and a wolf maiden— _the dragon must have three heads_ ) and yet he feels as if the threads pulling them altogether are more nebulous than the obvious tying them all into one united idea.

_The dragon must have three heads._

_She told you why!_

_It’s your choice._

Fire and blood. Fire and ice.

“Tell me your name.” When the man looks away, Bran adds, more quietly and with a pleading tone that sounds more desperate than he cares to admit, “Please.”

“Names have power, Bran Stark.” There is an expression on the man’s face that can, in another lifetime, be considered the aspiration aspire of a smile. “My name in particular.”

“I can’t call you Robb,” Bran retorts, unable to help the annoyance that seeps into his voice. “Even if you wear his face, which I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Would you trust me otherwise?”

“I hardly trust you now.”

To his surprise, the stranger laughs. “Your cousin, I think, would have been easier to deal with—and he received a knife in his heart for his troubles.” 

The words remind Bran that the stranger is wearing the blacks of the Night’s Watch, with an ease that should be off-putting. But the clues he has managed to put together—a greenseer, someone he once knew, a man of the Night’s Watch, quite possibly, a name that is powerful if spoken--have not combined into anything that rings familiar in his mind. He wonders again with some desperation whether or not his Sight is truly gone for good, if he has been relegated back to being a useless cripple.

He crosses his arms, feeling more than a little defensive at the man’s calm demeanor. “Why did you show me those memories? What am I supposed to do with any of this information? I can’t protect my family or the North with half-answers and memories of things that are no longer important.”

“Everything is important,” the strangers says, his expression grim. “And when it comes to the Houses whose war this is, everything is connected, in one way or another.”

“The war is over.”

“Bran, the Wall—a barricade that has been standing for millennia against the power that brings the Long Night—has come crashing down. The moment it did, the old gods lost their connection to you and you lost everything you learned from your predecessor. Your sisters felt it, you felt it—you heard the old gods howling right before your Sight was shuttered. And of course you did—your House has the blood of the First Men in it, the blood of the men who built the Wall. How could it do anything but scream once the spells that kept the Wall standing became undone?” The stranger meets Bran’s eyes steadily. “You hypothesized wrong, by the way. The power of the Night King is the power of the old gods—it would never be stable in a woman whose blood is pure dragonfire. It would drive her to madness.”

King's Landing. Burning. Thousands of people screaming. Green fire. Dragonfire.

_Something terrible..._

Bran blinks...and looks away.

The Wall stands before him. 

It looms higher than anything Bran has ever dreamed (vaguely familiar and a ghostly image of blue eyes and supernatural beings on decrepit horses flashes in his mind’s eye before vanishing as quickly as it had come). It almost disappears into the star-speckled black sky, darkness far and high overhead, torches flickering along the wall at three intervals...and then four. Seven. Ten. Fourteen. Nineteen. Bran blinks, as castles rise and fall in the blue shadow of the Wall and as the forest encroaches and then retreats along the Wall’s northern face. He blinks again and thinks he sees a dragon but by the time he can give it his full attention it has already disappeared.

Despite the black-clad men who mill around the nineteen intervals of the Wall and despite the dragon and despite the forest and despite the waxing and waning of the moon thousands of time in the sky, the Wall does not change. It glimmers palely in the moonlight, blazes crimson in the sunset, glitters and weeps blue in the high daylight. It does not change. It does not yield. It does not...

It begins to shrink.

Bran watches, eyes growing wider and wider, as the Wall begins to deconstruct itself, slowly and surely sinking lower and lower to the ground. The castles crumple too, one by one, and the men become...different somehow. In their midst—giants...and the golden-eyed creatures he knew as the Children. They unbuild the Wall, sparks of ice and snow, whispers of power, untangling the spells with each massive block of ice laid over and over and over again, until there is nothing left separating the North from the far north, forest and snow as far as the eye can see, dawn and dusk and daylight falling over and over again and...

Fiery darkness.

The sun does not rise. The summer does not come. Here, the images of so blurred and indistinguishable that Bran can hardly consider it a memory. It is too old, the time passed from the present too much—and yet he knows this for what it is. This is the story they told themselves, he thinks, as the darkness continues and continues and continues. This is the night that was promised. This is the night that had come and gone on the threshold of Winterfell.

But it does not pass as quickly as that one did. No, the winter lasts and lasts and lasts and he is not sure if he is still watching time unwind itself because there is nothing to indicate when the darkness fled, when the Night King and the realm of darkness was banished into the far, far, far lands of always winter. He searches for it, desperately—how had they done it before? The Three-Eyed Raven had never said. The Children created the Night King and then...somehow...remarkably, they and the First Men had driven him away. And for eight thousand years, he had not come south.

Eight thousand years.

Fiery darkness. A darkness blazing with...

No...that is it, isn’t it?

In the darkness, there is an inferno. In the darkness, there is...Bran peers. He is reaching. He is straining against the confines of time, against the limits of the stranger’s powers, but if he just pushes more, if he just holds on a little longer...there. There it is.

In the darkness, there is fire.

In the darkness, there is...a sword.

He knows the words. Somehow, _impossibly_ , he knows the words.

_I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn…_

It is an oath, an oath spoken and then forgotten, until only the bastardized version of it remains. It is the oath of a sword, of a person, nameless, faceless, beyond Bran’s grasp of recognition, who fought back the hordes of night and terror. It is a person who wielded fire to hold back the darkness and it is a person who wielded ice to shield the realms of men for thousands of years.

Fire and blood.

Fire and ice.

Two sides of the same coin.

Bran takes a step backwards and nearly collides into the stranger. He spins, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what he has seen, what he _is_ seeing, what he can’t forget, and he sees the stranger himself, pale and hollow-eyed, shaking from exertion and Bran can only stare at him in incomprehension as the man abruptly grasps Bran’s upper arms, fixing him with a fevered gaze.

“You have to go. They’re coming. I’ve shown you far too much at once.”

“What?” Bran gapes. “What are you talking about? The answers are right here. You can't just tell me these...stories and leave me be! You have to help!”

“Talk to the Tarly man,” the man grits out and Bran suddenly realizes that the mists around them are growing darker and more agitated with each passing minute, colder and colder. And they are pressing in, cloying and thick and menacing. Bran looks at the man in alarm. “And the boy, the brother of winter. Tell him, tell them both, what you know. He is the scholar. He will help. And the woman of the red god. She will know too. They will know. They will understand.”

 _Sam? Melisandre? But she's dead. What boy?_ Bran opens his mouth, to ask one more question, one more desperate question in need of an answer but it is already too late. The buzzing around him grows and the mists roar like the sea in storm itself and the man suddenly lunges forward, pushing him...pushing him…

Awake.

Bran blinks and peers blearily at the fire roaring in the hearth at the foot of his bed. The flames dance in front of his eyes and yet there is a chill that sits within him, cracking and spreading, as his gaze shifts towards the window of his room. It has been closed for the night but even he can see the pale sheen of ice along the edges, the promise of snow still building up outside the bulk of Winterfell. Somewhere in the distance, in the wolfswood or even beyond...there are nightmares, slowly approaching the sole inhabited castle this far North. Watching. Waiting. But waiting for what?

Bran frowns, sitting up slowly, and thinking back to the stranger’s words, the memories both recent and far-flung to the past. No. That’s not the right question. Not what.

 _Whom_.

The window rattles from the force of winter gales outside, even despite the heavy and thick wood they are made out of. He clenches his fists in the blankets, lacing together the memories and the advice and the words and the puzzle pieces, the warnings and the premonitions, what makes sense and what simply cannot. 

There are three things he knows are true. 

_But you cannot see a shadow. And neither could they._

One, the Long Night did not end. There is something wrong with the equation. A fiery dagger into the heart of winter, wielded by someone who shares blood with winter...no. No, that’s all wrong. They did something wrong.

_The dragon must have three heads._

There is something important with the Targaryens, something with the red god of the east surely. There are two sides to the coin, after all—if there is ice, then there must be fire. If there is dusk, there must be dawn. If there is winter, there must be summer. There is something here, he knows it. And he is sure it has to do with the sword and the oath and the building of the Wall and things they have all long forgotten.

He stops.

There is one more thing, one more thing he is not sure is connected but the more he thinks about it, the more he is certain. There is something in his blood, in the howling of the old gods, in the howling of the wolves, that tells him this is true.

It is a warning.

_And you children have the warning burned into your blood, in the words of this great House._

_Winter is coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Next chapter: Back to the stormlands with The Ghost in the Tower


	22. The Ghost in the Tower

Winter has once again settled into the heart of Westeros.

The stories that make their way to Storm’s End are all variations of the same thing: a massive storm has swept down the Neck from the North with a ferocity not seen in many decades. Cities and strongholds in the south that have barely seen snow suddenly find themselves pummeled by gales of ice and hail, as the winter winds pounce ahead of the impending storm itself with gleeful and almost taunting eagerness. Most of this news comes in the form of ravens (after all, no one in their right mind would try to approach on ship from the east--Shipbreaker Bay did not earn its infamous name for nothing) though they do receive news from travelers skirting down from Parchments and Bronzegate towards Dorne, travelers who bring second- and third-hand information from Duskendale and Rosby and Gulltown.

(There is, for more weeks than Gendry cares to count, no news from King’s Landing).

Gendry mistakenly thinks that Storm’s End itself would eventually be on the receiving end of this whispered storm, as ravens arrive bearing grumbling letters from the west, from Highgarden and Lannisport and Silverhill and Ashford, keeping Maester Jurne busy for days and weeks after Gendry and the northmen’s arrival. There is even word coming up from the south that the snows have reached the usually hot and arid plains of Dorne. But the maester only laughs quietly when Gendry vocalizes his prediction.

“We’re in a bit of a peculiar spot geographically, my lord,” Jurne said one afternoon in the rookery, as Gendry read over yet another message from a House that he was apparently supposed to know (he didn’t then and he still doesn’t, weeks later). “Our storms come off the Narrow Sea but the marshes and the kingswood act as barriers against the northern storms. The worst we will ever see is ice and cold winds but I can’t recall ever hearing of a northern snowstorm in this part of the stormlands.”

Despite those words, Gendry had woken up a few days later to see a thin layer of ice and snow on the balcony adjoining his bedchamber and when he had seen Jurne later on in the morning, the maester had looked perturbed but had only shrugged when Gendry questioned him. “Well, my lord, the dead walked and the dragons have come to Westeros for the first time in centuries. Perhaps we are living in the age of miracles.” The maester had then glanced outside at the bitterly cold winds blowing in off the bay, bringing a dizzying swirl of ice and snow in their wake, and had sighed. “But I suppose we had better prepare for some new arrivals if the storms gets any worse. I’m afraid that this sort of miracle does not quite come with a plentiful harvest or warm shelter.”

The advice had at least kept Gendry busy for the better part of a month--and away from the company of the red priestess. The meeting to discuss her reasons for sailing across the Narrow Sea never materialized, thanks to some deft maneuvering by Jurne--but neither have they received any instruction from Winterfell or King’s Landing regarding what to do with these supposed allies of the queen’s. He can feel her eyes on him whenever he enters a room she is already present in, a questioning if not quite yet accusing gaze, and she continues to unnerve him the way her spiritual sister had. He suspects she is closer to his age than Melisandre was but he also has a feeling that the priestess’s appearance could very well be hiding the secret of years. There is something about her that is different from Melisandre, a calm and self-assured knowing that permeates her whole being, a knowledge that does not border on haughtiness but rather the simple certitude of someone who already knows what has been written before the ink has been scratched onto parchment. 

It bothers him.

The man she had come with--”Daario Naharis, at your service...within reason, of course, though even I won’t balk at the right price”--is far more entertaining company, with his stories and easygoing attitude, though both the castellan and the maester view him with suspicion. Gendry finds his charm and easy smile a welcome reprieve--not to say that either Jurne or Farring are strict taskmasters but there is really only so much of the lordship this-and-that’s that Gendry can take on any given day. He is sure neither man approves of his camaraderie with the sellsword but neither of them actually tells him to stop associating with him, besides some thinly-veiled suggestions. Perhaps that is one perk of being a lord--no one can force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.

Still, between playing host to two people whose motives he can’t quite decipher and Farring and Jurne trying (and frequently failing) to mold him into the lordship that Daenerys has given him, it is a welcome surprise and reprieve when Davos arrives, as if a weight that Gendry did not even know he was holding over his shoulders suddenly dissolves as quickly as the frigid morning mists that surround Storm’s End. When one of the servants mentions another visitor, Gendry is wary at first--but it quickly turns into a warm flood of relief when he catches sight of the familiar face standing just within the bailey, the gates closing behind him. Just beyond, Gendry catches sight of the frosty mist-blanketed plains dipping towards the kingswood in the far, far distance. The skies are a dismal colorless hue as far as the eye can see.

Davos himself looks haggard as he passes the reins of his horse to one of the stableboys, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his beard and heavy cloak dusted with snow and ice. Yet he still manages a small smile when he catches sight of Gendry. He walks up to him and gives him a friendly hearty clap on the shoulder, a gesture just shy of an all-encompassing hug. “I see they’re already making you dress the part. Can’t say it suits you any better than when I found you in King’s Landing.”

“Aye?” Gendry asks with a grin as he hears the heavy footsteps of Farring come up from behind him. “They won’t let me near the forge. Say I’m supposed to be doing lordly things like drinking swill and writing letters, not beating steel into weapons.” 

Farring harrumphs behind him. “And you’re not very good at either.” He gazes past Gendry to Davos, a dark frown on his face. “Ser Davos. I thought you were too busy playing with kings to care about the smallfolk here anymore.” 

Gendry watches as Davos raises an eyebrow. “Bertie. They let you be castellan. You lot must’ve fallen on some hard times if they got that desperate.”

There is a brief moment of silence as Gendry looks from Davos to Farring and then back again, wondering if he is imagining the tension in the air or not--but his pondering is quickly squashed as Davos’s grim look transforms into a smile and a low chuckle and Farring lets out a roar of a laugh before slapping Davos on the back with enough force to almost cause the man to stumble. Gendry tries--and fails--to hide his own smile as Farring says, “Uncle Onion! About time you came back here to see about us poor sods! How long has it been? Five years? Eight?”

“Last I recall, you still had spots on your face,” Davos replies evenly. “Are you covering them up with that sorry excuse for a beard?”

“At least I still have color in my beard unlike some people I could mention. You’re getting old, Uncle Onion.”

There is a flicker in Davos’s eyes that Gendry cannot help but see--he has fought alongside the man for too long to not notice the brief shadow that crosses the older man’s face. Still, the former smuggler chuckles, shaking his head ruefully. “Aye, you’re not wrong. Perhaps I’ve spent too long playing with kings.” He briefly gives Gendry an aside glance and suddenly Gendry feels something tighten in the pit of his stomach--that is a look of terrible tidings and suddenly the world is a lot grayer and colder than it had been a mere moment ago.. His jaw clenches as Davos turns back to Farring. “We’ll catch up over a mug of that piss you call ale this evening, eh? You do still drink that sorry excuse for alcohol, don’t you?”

Farring grins. “Thick enough to chew on and pungent enough to make a grown man cry? Of course.” He gives Gendry an appraising look. “I haven’t yet our little lordling taste what stormlanders drinks to pass the time. You’ll have to come along, see the old man get absolutely shitfaced after one drink.”

Gendry returns the smile, trying to quell the churning in his stomach--not at the promise of the ale but of whatever news Davos has come bearing. “I look forward to it.”

They both watch as Farring walks away, pausing to trade jokes with the stablehands and the master of horses. After a moment, Davos says under his breath, “He likes you. Well done.”

“I think he only wants to humiliate me,” Gendry murmurs. He hesitates only for a moment before nodding his head towards the keep. They begin walking towards it slowly and Gendry senses the sailor’s hesitation and his own unwillingness to broach the topic warring with his curiosity. “You didn’t come with anyone else?”

“I left them at Bronzegate,” Davos says. “The worst of the storm had started to set in by then. Figured I’d make better time if I rode on alone.” He falls silent as they enter into the keep. The servants that look as if they are about to approach take one look at their faces and suddenly make themselves scarce. Davos notices it and offers Gendry a grim approving smile. “Seems as if you have them all under your thumb.”

Gendry shakes his head. “I haven’t done anything except not yell at them.”

“It already makes you better than a lot of lords, in their opinion.” 

Gendry leads them towards a small antechamber near the eastern section of the keep. He is not sure why he is the one taking charge--he is sure that Davos knows this castle better than Gendry ever will, from his days of smuggling and particularly from his famous exploits during Robert’s Rebellion. The small antechamber is empty save for a table and a few chairs, the table itself covered in papers, books, and a flask of something that Gendry dare not take a whiff of. The far window lets in a chill that the small hearth and the fire burning within it can do nothing to dispel. On the wind, Gendry can smell the damp scent of the salty sea and hear the faint cry of gulls swooping around the drum tower through the storm.

Davos is quiet for several moments longer, his hands firmly rooted onto the back of one of the chairs. Although his eyes are on the table in front of him, Gendry can see that his gaze is a million miles away. Unbidden and unwanted, the dream from a handful of weeks ago surfaces to Gendry’s mind--a dream of shadows and blue-eyed corpses lurking through King’s Landing, of fire and fear, and of dragons and death. Even in the wake of the red priestess’s arrival, he has done his best not to remember the dream ( _and the lust and the kiss, wet heat surrounding him, and then the cold sting of a blade at this throat, choking on his own blood_ ). The weight of dread and unknowing that had hardened into a tight and painful knot in his stomach had loosened upon Davos’s arrival but the man’s grim expression and reluctant silence has caused it to start taking shape again.

_But ice cannot kill a dragon. And the night continues._

“Something awful has happened, hasn’t it?” Gendry finally ventures, unable to abide the silence any longer. Davos looks up at him wearily, a question in his eyes that Gendry can only shrug at. “I know. I’ve had a feeling for…” (days, weeks, the _dream_ ) “...a long time now. And you come riding here, looking grim as all hells, like the world ended and you were the only one to see it. So did it? Did the world end? Did we win?”

Davos breathes out harshly through his nose. “Aye. Aye, lad. We won.”

And then he tells him.

Gendry is not sure what he expects, as Davos grimly recounts everything that has happened since his frantic dash down from Winterfell to Storm’s End to claim his lordship in Daenerys Targaryen’s name. But bitter horror pools in his stomach like acid and he can taste bile on his tongue. His dreams could have been clues--but how much importance has he truly given dreams in the past, to be shaken like this in the wake of winter and the arrival of a red priestess? It is war, he knows. There never could’ve been a bloodless victory, not with both queens so intent on claiming the throne as their own. Gendry had been in King’s Landing when Cersei had obliterated the Sept, the Faith, and nearly all of the prominent members of the Tyrell family in one lethal blow. The stench of wildfire and burning bodies had filled the air for weeks before Davos arrived to whisk him north.

But that had only been the Sept. That hadn’t been Flea Bottom and the streets far below the shadow of the Red Keep and the Hills, the streets where Gendry had grown up. Even though he put down his tools nearly two years ago to follow Davos north for some great unknown battle, there are-- _were_ \--people he had worked alongside, families he had greeted every morning, men he had known, some he had respected, some he had only tolerated. Gendry knows he was never sure if he’d ever return but there was always that possibility, that faint chance that once the adventure was over and the victory proclaimed and the heroes declared, he would go back to a quiet life in the heat of the forge.

And now his past is burned away, quite literally. In dragonfire or wildfire, it makes no difference. Davos is still talking, shaking his head, as Gendry realizes with a dull thump and an impossible-to-place sinking feeling in the very depth of him, that everything he has ever known, everything he ever was, every small and large part of his past up until Jon Arryn and Ned Stark entered his life, is now well and truly _gone_.

He doesn’t recall sitting down heavily in the chair, doesn’t know what to call this feeling of numbness that seems to have encased his thoughts. He never loved King’s Landing, never loved his lowborn position--but it was what he had known. He feels...unmoored, as if he is drifting like a ghost in this castle by the sea, with a name that doesn’t fit right and responsibilities that overwhelm him and a future that he never dreamed possible.

 _We won. We_ won _._

_Did you?_

He runs his hand over his hair, the quiet whispers of that dream tickling the edge of his mind, and finally looks up at Davos. “How many?”

He doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t need to.

Davos purses his lips. The sigh he lets out now is pure bleak exhaustion. “Too many. Far too many. Don’t go down this way, lad--it’s only a path of hurt and suffering.”

Gendry stares at Davos for a long uncomprehending moment. And then, in the numbness, something hotter ignites in his chest, as he thinks back on those days, when he was just a bastard and apprentice to a smith named Tobho Mott. When he returned to King’s Landing, the old blacksmith was nowhere to be found--his inquiries had been met with pitying looks and sad shakes of the head. It had not taken long for Gendry to find out his old master’s fate in the wake of his departure years earlier, another victim of Joffrey Baratheon’s ire and insecurity, another victim of the game of thrones.

Now, his childhood and the home that nurtured him--as much as King’s Landing could--has turned to ash, this time at the hand of someone he had defended to the people of Storm’s End, to quell their doubts and their hesitations about the dragon queen. The children he had seen yelling and playing and laughing in the streets, the matronly women who would sigh in fond exasperation when their husbands would take a brief detour during their errands to gaze in wonder at battle armor, the old men who would regale him with tales of when they fought in so-and-so’s battle decades and decades ago, honor and glory and beautiful days of old--all gone. All of them...burned away, charred husks in the streets, laughter and stories and smiles _gone_.

_She killed them all. They were innocent and she killed them all._

Unbidden, as the anger closes around his throat like a noose, the words of his House float to the front of his mind.

_Ours is the fury._

Davos must sense the rising stormy rage in Gendry’s chest because his features soften in compassion. “It’s no easy thing to hear, I know. It was no easy thing to see either. I doubted his reason at first but..." Davos pauses, and Gendry sees the brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he continues, “But I think Jon saw something that we didn’t. I don’t necessarily agree but--”

“But that doesn’t bring them back, does it?” Gendry replies, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. His hands clench into fists on the table but despite wanting to hit something--someone, anyone--he manages only to keep the fury building within him to a quiver in his muscles. “You’re telling me that she can burn innocent people alive--women and children who’d done nothing wrong--and she gets the throne as a reward? And that Jon, with all of his honor and good sense, is _allowing_ it? In what sort of world does that make any sense? Does she think the people deserved it? Because the people don’t--didn’t--give a rat’s ass about who sat on the throne. A lion, a dragon, a wolf--who the hell cares, as long as you’ve got food in your belly and your men aren’t marching off to die in some pointless war?”

“I wouldn’t disagree with you,” Davos says, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it. “But nothing’s as simple as it should be. I can’t explain it but the woman who burned the city isn’t the woman sitting on the throne. And Jon isn’t--” Davos stops abruptly, his mouth twisting as if the words are bitter on his tongue. Gendry narrows his eyes at him, opening his mouth to ask what in the world Davos is getting at, but the smuggler continues on. “As it stands, someone did try to bury a dagger in the queen’s heart. She didn’t succeed. And that’s why I’m here.”

 _At least someone tried_ , Gendry thinks sourly, even as another part of his mind latches onto the pronoun that Davos had used. He gives him a flat look. “‘She’?”

“The Stark girl. Arya.”

Mischievous blue eyes. A wicked smile.

_But I’m not a lady. I never have been._

_That’s not me._

There is thunder in his ears. He bolts upright, nearly knocking his chair back, even as the claws of fury from before sharpen into something far worse, digging into his neck and strangling him. It tastes like steel and blood, as if a thousand tiny daggers have been jabbed into his chest and his throat. He leans against the table, as if it can anchor him in this maelstrom of dread. “You said...she didn’t. Is she...? She’s not...”

Fire in the streets of King’s Landing. Fire and death and _blood_.

Davos shakes his head, a look of concern etched on his brow. He sounds baffled when he says, “No. No, the queen passed the sentence but she managed--somehow--to escape from under heavy guard. A damned thing too--no one knows how or if she had any help. The men guarding her were butchered in a way I haven’t seen since...Winterfell.” 

The last word Davos says softly, as if it is an answer to a question he never knew he asked. But Gendry cannot focus on that. No, the only part that is important to him is that Davos confirmed that Arya is alive. The fire and blood and death that stains Gendry’s dreams did not come for her. He lets out a breath, sagging back into his seat, suddenly and absolutely winded by the revelation. It means nothing, he knows. Or at least it should--but Arya Stark haunts him. She haunted him before Winterfell and she continues to do so--the promise of what could have been and what never will be.

And she is alive.

And she is missing.

 _Again_.

He groans and rubs at his face with both hands, ignoring the quizzical look that the other man is giving him. The room is quiet for a beat or two before Gendry hears him let out a sigh of realization, a breath of the inevitable conclusion, and feels tension began to knot between his shoulders. “Oh.”

Oh, indeed.

After a long uncomfortable stretch of silence, Davos finally says, “You young people make the lives of us old folk harder than they need to be.” Gendry looks up and sees a half-smile, half-grimace on the smuggler’s face. “You respect Jon and you care for his sister. It seems as if no matter what I’d ask of you, you’d have a hard time deciding what to do. Which puts you in a dangerous position...and me in the position of either helping you or damning you. Again.”

Gendry juts out his chin stubbornly. “I don’t need you to help me. But if she comes here, I won’t tell you. And I’m not telling the queen.” 

“I don’t expect you to.” Davos clasps his hands together on the table and cleans forwards, an intense expression lighting up his eyes. “But I’m telling you--you have to be smart. It’s not just your neck you have to look out for. Everyone here in this castle calls you lord now. They’re your people, along with the smallfolk of the stormlands. Not to mention the bannerman pledged to House Baratheon. You take a wrong step, you fuck them all over. I may not understand why Jon is doing anything that he’s doing right now and I don’t envy him his position but you have to know he might not be able to stop the queen from declaring war on anyone who stands in her way of justice.”

“I can’t just let her kill Arya.”

“Sometimes being a lord means you have to make a hard choice for the good of your people.” Gendry opens his mouth to argue but Davos silences him by raising his maimed hand. “I get it, lad. I do. You care for the girl. But the love for a woman has never done the Seven Kingdoms much good. And like you said, the smallfolk may not care about who rules what or who sits on what throne or who fucks who. They want peace and they want food in their bellies. If you have to make a choice, remember that when you do.”

“I’m no lord,” Gendry says but the words sound plaintive even to his own ears. Davos sits back in his chair with sigh.

“And I’m no true knight,” he replies in kind. “Sometimes the gods have a funny way of making us deal with the hand we’re given instead of the one we expected.”

He looks as though he is about to say more but a soft knock on the door halts him. Both men exchange glances before Gendry looks suspiciously at the door...and recoils as the red priestess steps quietly into the room. As usual, she is wearing her usual dark reds, her dark hair pulled back into a simple braid. Even though she does not wear the jewelry or gems that Gendry long since associated with Melisandre, there is a distinct power to her presence that causes him to flinch away, memories of leeches and threats of death still clinging to the appearance of any of the Red God’s chosen ones.

Davos makes to stand at the presence of a lady but there is a look of cautious confusion on his face as he does so. He gives her a short polite nod. “My lady.”

The woman smiles. “Davos Seaworth. The one whom they call the Onion Knight. It is a pleasure.”

Gendry can feel Davos’s gaze on him but he does not tear his eyes away from the red priestess. The dream floats to the front of his mind--the feel of her skin under his hands, her wet heat around his cock, the glimmer of knowing in her eyes...and the kiss of steel against his throat. He has avoided her and she seemed to respect his discomfort by not pursuing him into a corner to discuss her travels or her intentions to speak with Daenerys Targaryen. Still, he does not want her here. 

Davos must sense his disquiet because he says, “You’ll have to excuse me. I haven’t heard that accent in quite a long time. I can’t recall where to place it.”

The smile grows brighter and somehow more enigmatic. “No, I imagine you haven’t, Ser Davos.” Her eyes briefly dart over towards Gendry who shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. He almost swears that she looks tempted to wink at him before she turns her attention back towards the older man. “I am originally of Volantis, my lord, the high priestess of the Red Temple there. My name is Kinvara.”

“A red priestess?” Davos’s skepticism is thick enough to cut through with a sword. “I’ve met one of your kind.”

“So seems to be the constant story I hear,” Kinvara says smoothly. “I will be making apologies for Melony’s transgressions for a very long time, I fear.”

Gendry holds his tongue. Now is not the time to mention the leeches yet again. Davos however surprises him by slowly admitting, “She gave her life to see us through the Long Night. I might not have agreed with her--I might not have _liked_ her all that much--but I won’t argue against what she did that night.”

 _Fires that were easily doused by dead men_ , Gendry thinks...but frowns when he catches what looks like the barest flash of regret in Kinvara’s eyes. When he studies her face more closely however, the brief blink of emotion is already gone and she is gliding forward to sit at the table with the two men. Her posture is erect, her smile gone. Even though the regret that Gendry thinks he saw may have only been imagined, there is nothing to dispel the seriousness in those luminous blue eyes.

“My lord,” she says to Gendry, “when I arrived here several weeks ago, I told you why I had come and what I had seen in the flames. Because of the importance of Queen Daenerys’s war for her throne of iron swords, I respected your need not to intrude until the battle was done. But the arrival of Ser Davos marks a turning point for us all. He brings you news of what has happened in the golden city, and it is a tale of darkness. It is something you have seen in your dreams, have you not?”

Gendry bristles. He can feel Davos’s surprised gaze on him but he grits out, “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dream.”

Kinvara’s stare is intense. “You saw King’s Landing under the shadow of darkness, in fire and in ice. You saw death and the one who briefly held it back.” Gendry tries not to flinch, tries not to remember-- _Arry, Arry, Arya, please, please_. “But in the flames, I see the Great Other has touched more than one person, has followed the children of ice and the children of fire like a ghost trapped in a tower. The centuries-old magic has broken. R’hllor has blessed me to see these things and to bring you the meaning of the warning he has given you, my lord: the night is dark and full of terrors, and the ones reborn in flame, that ones that should have ended the reign of ice, have only come under the spell of his darkness.”

Davos frowns but says nothing. Gendry half-expects him to protest, to mention all of the rot and lies that Melisandre brought with her...but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks...concerned, as if he is taking her words to heart.

Gods, what in the world did he see in the capital?

Kinvara breaks her gaze with Gendry and nods towards Davos, as if reading Gendry’s thoughts. “You’ve seen the dragon that rose from the sea, have you not? You’ve seen the children of the dragons act as if gripped by madness?”

Davos shakes his head but not as if he is disagreeing with the red priestess but as if he is trying to clear his mind. Gendry narrows his eyes at her. “Are you saying she couldn’t control her actions? That doesn’t excuse what she’s done. People are dead. Women. Children. Innocent people. You think some mysterious darkness is enough to wipe that out, to make it all go away?”

“We live in a world where the dark winds of winter and death are rising,” Kinvara replies evenly. “The children of ice and the children of fire are not where they need to be, because my sister forced her idea of prophecy and of destiny on those who were not meant to wield those titles. For a brief moment, the darkness was held back...but it has returned. The Great Other is the anger of the wild, the true weapon of the old gods. It is vengeance and death and it will bring the true Long Night to fulfillment. I understand Queen Daenerys’s need to reclaim the throne of her ancestors but this game of thrones has proven to be nothing but a distraction from the great game.” 

Despite the serenity on the woman’s face, there is also a tinge of frustration and irritation that Gendry can point out, as if annoyed that she has had to make the voyage all the way from Volantis to deliver this warning. Quietly, he ventures, “So what are you saying? It was all for nothing? Winterfell and King’s Landing and everything we’ve fought meant nothing? Because of prophecy?”

It is Davos who answers.

“No, not prophecy.” He looks tired, haggard. “It was prophecy that led people in the wrong direction before, the very damned thing that fucked over Stannis and every good man who believed in him. Hundreds of good men died at Winterfell for the same thing. Thousands more died in King’s Landing because someone believed someone else to be a chosen one. Your god is telling people about prophecy and destiny and all it does is lead to ruin.”

Kinvara shakes her head. “When one tries to force a prophecy to make sense, then yes--it has led to gratuitous ruin and unnecessary death. My sister whispered the words of death into the ear of a child of ice, and she destroyed the king of night and winter. And this battle only took place because the other weapon of the wild, the other tool of the old gods, told you that it must be so.”

 _The other tool…?_ Gendry blinks. “Wait. _Bran_?”

“A thousand eyes and one,” Kinvara says. “I have seen it in the flames. Darkness is already in the golden city. The horrors of night march towards the mountains and towards where the battle where winter momentarily fell. The Long Night had a respite only, my lords. But R’hllor has shown me that it has not ended. His champions, the ones reborn in fire, were distracted and now darkness trails them like a scorned lover.” She gives Davos a steady glare. “The darkness has already touched you as well, my lord. I can sense ice in your soul.”

Davos’s brow knits together but Gendry has had enough. _Riddles and more riddles and death comes for all of us. Of course it does. It always does_. He stands, shoving his chair back. “Enough. We heard all of this with her, the red witch. With Thoros. Prophecy this. End of the world that. The world _did_ end, my lady. In Winterfell. The night came and then it was gone. There are no more monsters except what men are. Leave your dreams and visions elsewhere. It’s no good here.”

He brushes past her, trying to quell his frustration and rage towards everything and everyone. Davos, for bringing him the news from King’s Landing. Daenerys, for destroying the only true home he has ever known. The red priestess herself, for portending another nightmare. He wants it to be done. He is done.

It is only when he reaches the door that he hears the woman’s voice, “It is the girl, isn’t it? The one who wielded the blade against winter.” Gendry turns his head slightly, unable to help himself (it’s always her, it will always be her). Kinvara is looking at him with an appraising glint in her eyes. “It is why you have your dreams. You’ve shared something intimate with a child of ice--a kiss, perhaps. Perhaps something more. It is why the visions come to you. It is why the Lord is using you, because she is lost. A lone wolf without her pack. But a stag--a stag is the king of the wild and he can find what is lost.”

Gendry wills himself to walk out of the room. But he cannot. There are chains on his heart, manacles on his soul. He rests his forehead against the door.

 _Arya_.

Behind him, he hears her words to Davos. “When you return to the golden city, you will take me with you. These are tidings that the dragon queen must hear. Fell creatures threaten her kingdom. The old gods and the Great Other will not rest until the world and all of the people in it are as dead and cold as they are.” Over Davos’s sigh, she continues, “This is the fate that was ignored, my lord. Dawn never came. The night is here. Winter has come. And we will all live in the shadow until we find the bringer of light, a promised one to wield the sword in the darkness. It is death for all of us if we do not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N And with 100K under its belt, this fic has officially reached the end of the (rather exposition-filled) first act. 
> 
> Next chapter: The Hawkling, for the start of the second act and the thirteenth (!!!) and final POV.


	23. The Hawkling

For the first time in weeks, a crystalline shaft of rose-gold sunlight glimmers through the high windows of the High Hall and onto the book that Lord Robin Arryn has found himself in over his head reading. 

The young man blinks as the pale sunlight warms his fingers and he glances up at the windows. For a moment, curiosity flickers through him--and then, perhaps prematurely, excitement--but it quickly peters out as the clouds once again reclaim the sun behind their gray shadows. He knows that if he looks outside, the Eyrie itself will still be covered in frost and ice and snow, the result of snowstorms that came screaming from the west through the passes and over the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. On some days, when the cloud cover is not terribly thick and the heavy mists have parted, Robin can see down to the low valley in the distance, its usual rolling green hills and cover of thick evergreens buried in so much snow that the world often appears to only be splashes of white snow, black mountain rock, and gray sky.

He climbs down off the high seat he had scrunched himself into an hour earlier, wincing as his cramped legs protest the sudden movement. Tucking his book under his arm, he gingerly makes his way down from the steps adjacent to the dais and crosses the room towards the round stone barrier surrounding the Moon Door. Even though it is closed, he can hear the high whistling of the winds just below his feet.

He sighs.

For a brief moment, weeks and weeks ago, Robin had been sure winter had ended. Didn’t they receive word from Winterfell that it had (along with the sobering message of the hundreds of knights killed defying the harbingers of winter itself, gods he still shifts uncomfortably thinking about all of the people he had to deliver that news to in the following days, hours and hours of wailing and tears and grim-faced anger and despairing acceptance)? He is still not sure how his cousins managed it--the message had been terse--but it had still led him to believe that spring would soon arrive. And, for a brief instance, the ice _had_ thawed and melted snow _had_ dripped down parapets and balconies.

But then the storms came back.

Ser Donnel Waynwood had hypothesized that it had only been a false spring. Ser Vance Corbray, upon hearing the younger man’s theory, had only scoffed. 

“A false spring lasts longer than a fortnight,” the man had sniffed before explaining in a more even voice, “Sometimes winters last a very long time. We cannot expect blizzards for months on end. There will be days when the weather is slightly warmer and it looks to be over. But the Citadel will let us know once spring truly arrives.” 

No raven has arrived from the Citadel, however, and the snowstorms that started a few days after the thaw have not let up for weeks now. Robin had overheard grousing from some of the knights that the road down to the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon became impassable with each heavy fall of snow, icing over in the moments when the winds brought more frost than actual snow. Curiosity still tugs at him to venture down to the Bloody Gate to see what all the fuss is about but Lord Redfort--a mild-tempered old man who had been left in charge of the Eyrie (and Robin) in Lord Royce’s absence--had turned a very interesting shade of red when he had broached the subject a few days ago.

And then, of course, there are the strange stories filtering up from the mountain clans...

So instead, Robin, the Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Defender of the Vale, spends most of his time curled up in the weirwood throne of the High Hall, whatever book he has managed to get his hands on the only thing keeping him much company. Many of the high lords and ladies of the Vale had retreated farther down the mountain to the Gates of the Moon, leaving only a handful in the Eyrie itself. If Robin hadn’t already been used to an inordinately lonely existence, it would have bothered him more.

As it stands, with little to do in the way of lordship duties, he has plowed through more books than he guesses Lord Royce or Lord Redfort are comfortable with. It probably would not have been much of a problem--there is really only so much trouble you can get into reading treatises and histories and the personal diaries of so-and-so maester--but Robin has abruptly (and perhaps far too eagerly) shown interest in some of the more...esoteric titles in the library. When he had stumbled across them, his eyes had nearly permanently crossed looking at the ponderous titles:  _ Chronicles of the Dragon Maesters and their Novices from Aegon’s Conquest to the Rule of Jaehaerys I and an Examination of the Dark Arts _ or more infuriatingly  _ Red Religions of Essos: R’hllor and the Shadowbinders of Asshai and Beyond, a Dissertation on the Gods of Fire and Ice _ . Surprisingly, the book simply titled  _ Pirates of the Summer Isles  _ had been a slog of a read. 

When Lord Redfort stumbled across Robin nose-deep in a book called  _ Anatomical Curiosities: The Deviation of Form _ , the color he had turned then had been more green than crimson. He had, with some difficulty, suggested more books about politics and warfare.

_ As if I want to read about what I live, _ Robin thinks in disgust. Before, and not too many years past, he may have simply thrown a fit and refused. But Lord Royce has managed--somehow--to wheedle the worst of it out of him. Not that Robin appreciates all of his methods, or Lord Redfort's.  _ And where is he anyways? Shouldn’t he be somewhere ready to talk to me about nonsense that doesn’t even matter? It’s been snowing for days and days.  _

The book currently tucked under his arm--a dizzying record of lineage amongst the northern houses that read more like a map than anything else--is heavier than what he is used to carrying and he grimaces as he makes his way through the near-empty halls of the Eyrie towards the kitchens. He is hungry and mildly cold--at least the cooks tended to take pity on him whenever he inevitably ended up there, one of the few consistently warm places in the Eyrie now that winter has come and refused to leave.

It is no different today. A matronly-looking woman with a flushed face and dark hair salted with gray smiles at his appearance, as Robin enters into the kitchen and takes in a deep breath--the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and freshly baked bread is as thick as perfume in the air. “Sweetrobin, you’re late.”

He shrugs, sitting down at his usual rickety chair by the fire and placing his book across his lap. “I saw the sun.”

“Oh? Well, it certainly has been awhile. Have the snows stopped?”

For some reason, this only makes him churlish. He crosses his arms and slumps down in his chair a bit. “It was only for a few moments. It’s been snowing for days. We’re never going to get down to the Gates of the Moon. We’ll probably stay up here and freeze and then when summer comes, they’ll only find our frozen bodies with our eyes pecked out by the ravens.”

The woman rolls her eyes as she begins to arrange a plate for him. “Come now, child. That’s rather macabre, don’t you think?”

“I read in a book that this is what happens when winter comes,” Robin retorts. “When it gets so cold and people starve to death and then they start eating each other and then they freeze.”

“You have an overactive imagination, child,” the woman says with a tut of her tongue. “Perhaps Lord Royce was right about those books you’re reading. And besides, no one will eat you--you are far too scrawny to make a decent meal. Perhaps we can burn your bones to start a fire in order to stay warm. That should make you feel better, no?”

Robin’s face twists into a rictus of annoyance...and it quickly dissolves as he shakes his head with a puff of air that may be a laugh. He stays slouched though, arms crossed. “Gella, you’re supposed to  _ respect  _ me. I’m the Lord of the Eyrie.”

“I respect that you don’t have any meat on your bones.” Gella places a plate on a tiny table next to him, a table that looks more in danger of collapse than his own chair. Thick pieces of bacon, dripping with fat and grease, are buried beneath slabs of buttered brown bread that are still steaming, the sugared cinnamon swirl within adding an auspicious glaze to the bread. As he reaches for the food, Robin almost thinks to ask for a glass of wine but knows Gella will only frown disapprovingly at him. She has never been one to approve of alcohol during simple morning or afternoon snacks.

Biting a chunk off one of the pieces of bacon, he says around chewing, “Has there been any gossip from the mountain clans?”

Gella tuts at him again. “No chewing with your mouth open, child.” Ever since his mother and Petyr had died (and gods the stories he has been told about that, from the few people in the Eyrie willing to speak of it, the backstabbing and the machinations and the treachery, and something in Robin feels very cold and shriveled when he remembers either of them), Gella has taken on a more maternal role with him, despite being a mere servant. Sometimes Robin balks at it. He’s the lord of this castle after all--why should a servant rise above her station to chide him the way she does?

But Gella has a warmness that Uncle Petyr never had, and a backbone that Lysa Arryn never possessed. Even now, memories of his mother are spotted, watercolored things. He remembers a redheaded woman with a tremulous voice and a cloak of paranoia wrapped around her as thickly as a wedding cloak. Years and years later, unbidden, he can taste her milk on his tongue. He swallows thickly, the grease of the bacon suddenly cloying, and rubs his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Sorry.”

The woman shakes her head in exasperation. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I tell you one thing and you go and do something worse.” She hands him a cup of water before pulling another chair closer to the hearth. She settles down onto it with a sigh, wiping her hands on her apron. “Now why are you here looking for gossip? It’s not very lordly of you.”

“Because you have the best stories,” Robin says, tearing the bread into thick strips. “And Lord Redfort gets frustrated every time I bring it up.” Once upon a time, Robin would have thrown him out the Moon Door. A part of him still wishes he could.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, my little hawkling,” Gella says. “But I haven’t heard anything about the mountain clans in a few days. The storms have been keeping most people quiet.”

Robin frowns, picking up another piece of bacon. “We could send a raven down to the Gates of the Moon.”

“And what would they tell us, hmm?” Gella shakes her head at him, a placating smile on her face. “Ravens aren’t to be used for idle gossip, my lord. I’m sure Lord Redfort will let you know if they cease being stories and start to become truth.”

Truth. High up in a castle in the mountains, truth is less interesting than entertaining gossip. Books are grand company and sure, he is used to the solitude of the winter by now, but even a little bit of deviation from his normal daily activities might be a boon. He sighs loudly, knowing it sounds petulant. “Gella, what good is it being the lord of the Vale if I can’t send ravens whenever I want?”

“Well, if you’re so bored, you can tell me about that book you’re ripping up.”

Robin blinks and then gazes down at the book still sitting in his lap. Smears of grease and a small army of crumbs coat the front cover from where he has been paying less attention than usual as he eats. Despite himself, he flushes in embarrassment, wiping the crumbs off with his sleeve. There’s nothing to be done about the grease marks though and he wrinkles his nose in mild defiance. “It’s boring.”

Gella raises an eyebrow. “Which is why you’ve been carting it around for a week.”

“Because it’s so boring. It’s taking forever to read it.” Robin absently tosses the cover open and flips through a few pages filled with increasingly detailed text. “All it talks about is who married whom and the children this lord or this king sired. There are no battles or anything of that sort. It doesn’t tell me whether a single person was thrown out a Moon Door. See? Boring.”

As Gella rolls her eyes, Robin bites his tongue to keep from telling her that he found the book amongst Uncle Petyr’s old possessions. He remembers when the news had come from Winterfell regarding Uncle Petyr’s betrayal, swift trial, and even more swift execution, though the details from Lord Royce had been scarce. The servants had quickly acted to obliterate any trace of the man from the Eyrie but Robin had swooped in to save some of the more interesting books the man had left behind. Between the books and the whispered sordid tales from the castle’s inhabitants, the story he has managed to weave together leaves the memory of Littlefinger soured in his mind.

But the books are an entirely different story. The closer the man got to his goal, the sloppier he became, his plans more ludicrous and haphazard (and perhaps Robin is still a little sore about him whisking Sansa off to wed Ramsay Bolton when  _ everyone  _ knew what kind of person Ramsay was and when Sansa had been promised to  _ him _ ). It almost feels like Uncle Petyr and Littlefinger are two different people in his memory but somehow, someway, they combine into one, and Robin only has these small little remnants of the man who had been a substitute father to him for several years, plotting and plotting and plotting.

The book is just one more thing, another piece in a puzzle that created the man who feels like a nightmare and a father and a guardian all at once. Robin still isn’t sure how he should remember him or his mother, for the harm they caused him under the guise of love. The answer could be in a book. The answer could be in a person. Perhaps there is no answer at all and he’s just chasing ghosts.

“My lord?”

Robin lifts his head, and blinks his way out of his reverie at Gella’s mildly concerned expression. He wipes his trousers of crumbs and stands, suddenly thinking that the kitchen is too hot and small, and the smell of yeast is suddenly churning his stomach. “I have to go.” He pauses. “Thank you for the food.”

And then he all but runs out of the room and towards the library.

The library and its massive collection of books older than even the oldest person in the Vale are contained entirely in one of the high towers of the Eyrie. Shelves upon shelves of books rise higher and higher up the tower, accessed by a winding iron staircase in the center of the tower, narrow walkways extending out from the staircase at each level. Standing down below and gazing upwards is like looking at a vertical spoked wheel. The combination of twisting iron and the dozens of thin stained glass windows rising through the tower let color and light filter onto the stone floor at the base, and where there are no windows at all, torches in intricate sconces capture flame and shadow. 

The lack of sunlight over the past several weeks means that the riot of color that usually permeates the library is dulled, even if the tower is still one of the brightest ones in the castle. Robin quickly glances up at each floor and, seeing that he is the library’s only occupant, climbs up the iron staircase to the third level, the stairs and the walkway quietly groaning under his weight. He drops the book he is reading on one of the shelves--he is sure the maester will get to it eventually and sigh about Robin’s messiness--before racing back down to a small alcove on the main floor. Glancing around one more time to make sure he is the only person in the library, he ducks into it, shoving a heavy curtain to the side to reveal a narrow wooden door just beyond. With a grunt, he shoulders it open...and is greeted by a shrieking blast of cold air.

Gritting his teeth, Robin slides into the uncomfortably narrow stairwell just beyond the door, not quite slamming it shut behind him. The stairwell is barely wider than shoulder width--Lord Royce would not be able to move down the staircase without massive difficulty. The arrowslits to his left (pointless in his opinion, once he glanced through one of them and saw nothing but sky) let in the chill blast of mountain air, and have left the crooked stone steps slick with ice. Robin places both his hands against the icy stone to keep his balance and slowly descends the staircase, slipping and cursing more times than he’ll admit.

By the time he reaches a landing of the staircase a few minutes later, his fingers are numb with the cold. The stairs continue further down into darkness.

_ At least I didn’t break my neck.  _ The door here at the landing is far easier to open than its counterpart higher up. It swings open to a small circular room with a small circular table right in its midst, the top of it piled high with books. The ceiling is low enough to give the impression that the room itself is sagging under the weight of the tower filled with books--he doesn’t even have to raise his hand very far above his head to touch the ceiling. When he first discovered this room months ago, it had taken weeks for him to shake off the feeling of slowly being crushed. 

It helps that there are a few squat windows directly across from the door that peer out and up towards the sky cells. There have been no prisoners within them for a very long time, and there is something distinctly unnerving, even for him, to be in this room where it is impossible to ignore the very literal weight of knowledge overhead and to see the cells open to the sky. Fortunately, the winds are buffered by some sort of rock formation jutting out just above the windows--the room is cold but not unbearably so. Better yet, the small chamber is just barely adjacent to the hall and stairs leading up to the library itself. If anyone so much approaches the library, he can hear their footsteps and sometimes, if they’re loud enough, their voices in enough time to dart back up the stairs before anyone can truly look for him.

He settles into the only chair in the room (there had been two at one point but the other had been so grimy and rotten through that when Robin first sat on it, it had collapsed and shoved several painful splinters into his backside) and starts perusing the books on the table. Most of them come from a chamber even further down the stairwell that Robin had only braved twice: once, to discover the room, and twice, to gather up as many books as he could before vowing to never return. The lower chamber smelled of mildew and decay and was strewn with spiderwebs, a thick layer of dust on the floor and on the shelves. More than one book had crumbled into nothingness when he picked it up.

The books he found in that forgotten lower chamber are the sort he knows would send Lord Redfort into a conniption, let alone what it would do to Lord Royce. Apocryphal histories. Diaries from expelled maesters. An entire section regarding the higher mysteries. Robin, despite nearly being a man grown, had taken a childlike delight in his discovery, hauling up books by the dozens until the old table in the mid-chamber threatened to buckle beneath the weight. Soon, there were small little piles around the chamber, and Robin had been covered with so much dust and dirt and grime after that first expedition that Lord Redfort had berated him for an hour afterwards.

It was worth it, Robin thinks, reaching for one of the books that looks like a history of the bloodmages from Asshai. A grin on his face, he stretches his legs out in front of him and begins to read.

The light is only beginning to dim when he hears the echo of footsteps down the library hall. Even worse, he hears voices.

“Gella thinks he may be in the library?”

“I don’t know, my lord. Gerald mentioned he saw him go this way a few hours ago.”

A few hours ago. Robin glances quickly out the window--the light had faded so gradually from pale gray to not so pale gray that he has barely noticed. Scowling, he tosses the book on the table, spells and sorcery swirling in his mind. He clearly cannot use that book as an excuse for being locked up in the library for hours. Lord Redfort would make sure he had nothing to eat except milk of the poppy for the next ten years of his life. 

In a panic, he quickly scans over the rest of the books on the table, finally grabbing one that somehow does not have a damning title on its cover--it has no title at all, as far as he can tell in the waning light--and runs out of the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible so the clicking lock does not echo up the stairs. He rushes up the stairs and shoves the door at the top open again, wincing as it groans louder than he thinks he strictly necessary in its door frame. 

He is just managing to shove it close behind him when he hears the doors of the library creak open and a voice call out, “My lord?”

Scrambling, Robin manages to yank the heavy curtain back into place and race out the main floor of the library just as an Arryn guardsman and Lord Redfort enter into the library proper. Trying to quell his breath (and his racing heart) and look as guiltless as possible, Robin juts his chin upwards to look down his nose at the two men, wrapping the Lord of the Eyrie persona around him. He holds his decrepit book of unknown subject matter at his side like a sword. “Yes?”

Lord Redfort frowns at him suspiciously, glancing over in the direction Robin has come from. “My lord, what were you--”

“Reading about..." His mind races as he quickly glances down at the titleless book in his hand. “...stomach ulcers and poisonings. There was actually a very interesting phenomenon that afflicted the Dornish four hundred years ago, where a desert worm burrowed itself in several crops. It would lay eggs within the crops and the people would eat the crops, and the eggs would hatch within their bellies and start gnawing on their insides. Their eyes would blister and they would vomit blood and yellow bi--”

“T-thank you, my lord,” Lord Redfort hastens to interrupt, looking a little green. Robin grins to himself. “I’m sure it is quite fascinating. I loathe to interrupt your...studies but you have a guest.”

This perks his interest. “I thought the road down to the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon was impassable.”

“It seems that she insisted to see you, my lord.”

_ She? _

But he sees Lord Redfort shift uncomfortably and the guard with him looks to be recovering from being completely blindsided so Robin just shrugs and nods, in his opinion, graciously. “Fine. Let us go see what our stubborn guest wants.”

Even though Robin would have preferred traveling down to the Gates of the Moon instead.

Lord Redfort does not speak at all on their way back to the High Hall and the guard, of course, makes no attempt to fill in the oppressive quiet either. Robin rolls his eyes towards the ceiling as they wind their way back through the practically empty halls, swallowing back complaints and incessant questions about who in all the hells had climbed up to the Eyrie during a snowstorm, no matter how mild. He supposes he needs to think about feeding the guide and the guest warm food and supplying a warm chamber for them to rest, and wonders if Lord Redfort will turn one of his interesting colors if he makes him do it. He hides a grin.

The doors to the High Hall swing open. Standing near the Moon Door are two knights of the Vale--a Hunter and an Egen, he thinks, from the sigils on their cloaks. Melting ice sluices down their cloaks and into large puddles on the floor around their feet. Both men look grim, their cheeks ruddy from the high winds and bitter cold outside.

In between them, her back turned to examine the Moon Door, is a slim young woman wearing leathers and trousers like a boy. Her dark hair, barely longer than shoulder length, is half-pulled into a tail, and looks appropriately windswept and messy. Her own cloak is just as damp as her companions and is slightly pulled away from her hip, where Robin can see her hand resting on the hilt of a sword. Robin’s brow knits in fascination--he has never seen a woman with a sword before. One of the Stone bastards carries a small dagger around sometimes but never a sword.

Lord Redfort takes a step around Robin and clears his throat.

“It is my honor to present Lord Robin Arryn--Lord of the Eyrie, head of House Arryn, Warden of the East and Defender of the Vale.”

The two knights, of course, give respectful nods of their heads. The woman, however, doesn’t turn immediately, still too enraptured by the Moon Door. Her gloved fingers brush against the low stone barrier surrounding the door, almost thoughtfully. Robin feels his fascination and curiosity start to curdle after a moment or two, as she continues to examine the door rather than acknowledge him. Biting back a demanded explanation, he turns a glare to Lord Redfort, who fidgets (as much as a lord can fidget) and clears his throat.

“My lady?”

The woman turns then, albeit slowly, casually. She has a round, vaguely familiar face, a pair of shrewd blue-gray eyes peering out at Robin from beneath a pair of dark brows. She looks...much younger than those eyes would hint at. Unlike her companions, her cheeks seem to be red mostly from the cold rather than the exertion of the climb, though he notices the telltale signs of frostbite scarring the tip of her nose--not too far gone to be blackened from the cold yet but the skin is already peeling. She doesn’t look too nonplussed by it however and perhaps it is because it only seems to be one of many scars--faded and new--that mar her face.

This is a lady? 

“My lord,” Lord Redfort speaks again, gesturing towards the young woman. “May I present your cousin, the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

“Sansa’s sister?” Robin blurts, tilting his head and really studying the dark-cloaked young woman in front of him. It is like night and day, the difference between the two. Sansa had been tall and willowy, beautiful beyond measure, her hair the color of an autumn sun. This sister, dressed like a boy, short and dark-haired and with a face bordering mildly comely rather than breathtakingly beautiful, cannot be more different. “You two don’t much look alike.”

Arya’s smile is humorless and brief. “She takes after our mother. You remember her, don’t you? She came this way several years ago with Tyrion Lannister.”

“How could I forget?” Robin replies as a cautious knot settles into the pit of his stomach. He is not sure what his cousin is playing at, or the reason for her sudden appearance and dangerous hike up the mountain to the Eyrie. There is a look in the Stark girl’s eyes that does not bode pleasant tidings. He glances at the guard, the knights, and Lord Redfort. “Can I speak to my cousin alone?”

“My lord, I must protest--”

“It may have sounded like a question,” Robin interrupts, already turning his attention back to Arya, as his curiosity starts to grow again, “but I’m Lord of the Eyrie. I wasn’t truly asking for your permission.”

Lord Redfort opens his mouth to argue but then closes it with an audible snap, a look of resigned irritation briefly flitting across his face. Robin knows that this little act will end up in a message to Lord Royce at Winterfell, and he supposes he will be at the receiving end of one of his guardian’s lectures once he returns to the Eyrie. But there is a bit of fun in defying his current guardian right now, and he watches the men filter out of the room with undisguised pleasure.

Once the door closes behind the last one, he turns back to Arya. “Have you come to bring more news about Winterfell?”

She shrugs. “I haven’t been in Winterfell. Jon’s queen wanted to conquer King’s Landing so that’s where I was.”

Right. Of course. Eddard Stark's bastard and the Targaryen queen. He perks up. “Is it true she has two dragons?”

For some reason, a dark scowl dances briefly across Arya’s face but it is quickly smothered by that mask of blank indifference. “She didn’t need two for what she did to the city. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here because she has two dragons?”

“I’m here,” Arya says slowly, “because Jon’s queen obliterated a city and thousands of innocents in the process, for the sake of naming herself queen of Westeros.”

Robin stares uncomprehendingly at his cousin for a long moment. War, he knows, inevitably ends with people dying. It is the very thing that Westeros has been plagued with ever since his mother poisoned his father and blamed it on the Lannisters. He can see the pieces of that particular puzzle very clearly now but it makes no matter the reasons behind how the War of the Five Kings began--after all, fires in the riverlands have only recently been shuttered due to the snowfall barreling down from the north.

_ People fly, people die _ , he thinks, gazing past Arya towards the Moon Door. Innocent or not, what exactly did any of them expect if the Targaryen woman wanted her throne back? “People die in war all the time,” he says after a moment, ignoring the flare of heat in his cousin’s face. “What made it so different this time? Uncle Pe- Lord Baelish killed more people than that just by instigating a war that lasted years.”

“They were common folk,” Arya replies, her tone colder than the shrill mountain winds wailing beneath their feet. “They had surrendered.”

“And the common folk who died in the riverlands during the worst of the War of the Five Kings were innocent too.” Robin shrugs. “That’s what war is.”

“For someone who wasn’t there, you sound awfully sure of yourself that it was necessary.”

“I’m sorry, was it different from any other battle that has ever taken place in the history of ever?” Robin skirts around his cousin and hefts himself up on the dais holding the weirwood throne. He does not sit on the throne, however; instead, he sits on the dais, legs dangling over the side. He is sure that it is not very lordly of him to do so but this woman is his cousin and barely two years his senior. Plus, she has come talking about wars and such within the first few minutes of their meeting. He can be casual if he wants. He’s the Lord of the Eyrie. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his upper thighs. “Do you want me to condemn it? Like you said, I wasn’t there.”

Arya narrows her eyes at him, and he can see the calculations running through her mind, enough to be momentarily unsettled by that flat, cool gaze. He shifts his gaze to the side as she replies, “Sansa condemns it.”

“You said you haven’t been in Winterfell.”

“I know my sister,” Arya replies coolly. “And I’d think that you’d know her well enough too. In what world do you think Sansa would ever condone the mass slaughter of innocent men, women, and children? I know Sansa and Bran already know what has happened in King’s Landing, and that they will not stand for what this queen has done. I am asking you to stand with us, cousin.”

Robin chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. “She has dragons.”

“A dragon can be killed.”

_ And how many people have to die before that can happen _ , Robin wonders. The idea of seeing a dragon up close, of course, is terribly exciting. And the Targaryens are a legendary House, eradicated (or so it was thought) long before Robin himself had been born. He thinks it would be interesting to meet one of the supposed dragonriders of lore, a descendant of Valyria just like in the stories and histories he has been reading over the past several months. He had heard the stories, even here in the Vale, of the way Daenerys Targaryen nearly destroyed the Lannister forces a year ago, on a black hulking beast that rivaled the great Balerion in size.

“I’m the Lord of the Eyrie,” Robin finally responds slowly, this time without any bluster in his voice. “And I’m the Defender of the Vale. It’s my...job to protect this castle and the people who live in it. I’ve already sent hundreds of knights to Winterfell to protect it from the forces of winter. Why do you want me to make the survivors march in another war? The Eyrie can survive a siege but we can’t survive a dragon.”

_ Look at me, Lord Royce. I  _ can  _ make good decisions when I try. _

_ Even though I really want to see a dragon. _

He kicks his heels against the dais, ignoring Arya’s skeptical look. “Look, you’re my cousin. And I really respect Sansa. If you want to go to war with Queen Daenerys, I suppose it’s only right to stand with you.” He twists his mouth into a grimace. “But the last time House Arryn called its banners against the Targaryens, we put a Baratheon on the throne. And I think they all got wiped out.”

He means it as a joke, if an il-planned one, so he is surprised to see a myriad of emotions spiral across Arya’s face: anger, hurt, loss, sadness. He almost opens his mouth to question it but she is already speaking, “Just the one Targaryen. We have a better option.”

“Who?” Arya shakes her head. “You can tell me to put my people’s lives at risk but you can’t tell me who you want to rule in Queen Daenerys’s stead? That’s not fair.”

“It’s not my place to say.” 

The response is quiet and lacking the steel bravado that had been lanced through her words earlier. She actually does look rather reluctant, and Robin debates pushing her for an answer, demanding an explanation better than “we’re family” to send people off into another war no one asked for. He wonders what Lord Royce would have him do--commit to the cause or send her away? Maybe he needs to send several ravens of his own. And, again, he still wants to see a dragon to know what he is truly up against.

“Let me think about it,” he finally says. When Arya’s gaze snaps back up to him, he thinks he can see frustration simmer in her eyes. He shrugs. “You’re asking a lot. You can at least give me more than five minutes to decide. Unless you have an actual bounty on your head, I think we can spare the time.”

Arya narrows her eyes at him, looking prepared to argue...but then she visibly reels herself in, nodding shortly at him.

“Well, if that’s settled..." Robin says, jumping down from the dais and walking towards the main door of the hall. He raps on it a few times and it opens to let in one of the servants of the castle. He gestures towards Arya. “My cousin will want something hot to eat. Set up a warm chamber for her and some food.”

Arya gives him one more unreadable look of scrutiny before both she and the servant are gone.

For some reason, it chills him.

Robin sighs, rubbing at his mouth with one hand and finally glancing down at the book he snatched up from the library. The cover is red and the title nearly worn away but he can see that it has something to do with religion again. Of course. He could not even grab something full of adventure when he fled up the stairs in the library.

_ Still _ , he thinks as he glances behind him at the Moon Door,  _ it is something peaceful at least _ . The presence of his Stark cousin has, after all, brought possibly more adventure than he truly actually wants. 

With that thought in mind, he climbs up the stairs back to the weirwood throne, settles into it, and begins to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note about travel time in ASOIAF/GOT because we still don’t have Uber in Westeros. There’s a helpful Excel doc that documents the canonical chronology of the books and which gives a good idea on how long it takes to travel from point A to point B. For Arya’s escape to the Eyrie, I based it off of Catelyn’s own journey from King’s Landing to the Eyrie in A Game of Thrones. Catelyn’s trip took approximately a month. Arya, traveling by herself and as quickly as possible and without a hostage in stow, made it in about half that time.
> 
> Nothing is ever going to be super accurate but I am trying to be as realistic as possible when it comes to travel time and the total amount of time passing at each location. I’ve also adjusted the geography of the Vale a bit to more coincide with how it is presented in the books. It’s totally not because I want ice zombies climbing up to the Eyrie in the dead of night.
> 
> Of course not.
> 
> Next chapter: The Runaway


	24. The Runaway

The siege on the Eyrie begins shortly after Arya arrives.

It has been days since she arrived in the Vale after a frantic dash north, in weather that continually worsened as she made her way towards the mountains. The roads had been eerily empty of travelers and she had skirted around every known holdfast she came across, determined not to let word of her location filter back to the capital--the runaway Stark. The slayer of winter. The potential Queenslayer. All of her horses that she had ridden hard to escape King’s Landing had been frothing at the mouths by the time she traded them in for fresh mounts. 

A route by sea would have been faster but what is a ship compared to a dragon? She had seen what Drogon did to the Iron Fleet.

It doesn’t matter now. The night that the shadows come creeping through the mountains, Arya is laying sprawled in her bed, hands clasped behind her head as she stares up at the ceiling and listens to the high-pitched howling of mountain gales outside. She _should_ be asleep, she knows, but she is past the point of exhaustion. Her body feels as if she cannot possibly do anything _except_ rest but her mind has been churning malevolently for weeks, a miasmic cloud of denial hanging over her like a noose. She barely slept on the road north--distance and speed was prioritized over rest. She knows that the dragon queen (and Jon, gods no no _no_ ) must be aware of her escape by now, an escape that still confounds Arya herself: ice on the walls, her guards killed by apparently supernatural beings, darkness and cold following after her like a shadow…

Arya closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep. The Eyrie had been a logical choice, though she supposes nowhere is truly safe for her in Westeros, not until Jon’s queen is dead. She has bought herself time, enough of it to think, to plan, but nothing more. Will Bran have told Sansa where she’s gone? Is Sansa already strategizing the best way to win a war against a queen with dragons? Have they already come to terms with the fact that Jon has chosen his side and it isn’t with them (this line of thought burns under Arya’s skin, makes her want to dig her nails into her flesh, to scream, to cry, to demand an answer from a brother who is no longer there, but she can’t, she _can’t_ )? 

Before, she had not been sure if her hatred for the Targaryen woman could burn any deeper. 

She was wrong.

 _She took Jon_ , Arya thinks blankly. It is the one thing her thoughts keep coming back to, the one thing she has tried not to think about since she fled King's Landing. Jon chose Daenerys, over everything, _after_ everything. Arya knows he loves her, knows that he is stubborn to a fault...but Jon is their father’s son (nephew, good gods). He is good. Above all things, he is _good_. It rattles her mind, shakes and unsettles her to her core, that he would choose someone who decimated an entire city in a rage, would choose someone who promised fire and blood from Winterfell to Dorne to the slaver cities of Essos. It doesn’t make _sense_.

Arya thinks back to when Jon returned to Winterfell, dragons soaring overhead, a beautiful white-haired queen at his side. She can’t remember what she thought of the queen when she first saw her, except that she had been so striking and foreign-looking next to the dark-cloaked and dark-haired northerners. She had observed her in those days leading up to the battle, had seen her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiled...but only ever around Jon. Arya may have come to love her--a woman who had overcome every obstacle thrown her way and who so clearly loved her beloved older brother on top of it--but then she had noticed the cold tension between her and Sansa, the permanent frown marring Sansa’s features whenever the dragon queen was mentioned, as if the mere thought of her left a sour taste on her tongue. After that, it didn’t take long to put two and two together: Daenerys had not come to the North out of the goodness of her heart but because she expected something in return. She expected the North to kneel.

_And she expects Jon to deliver it to her. She doesn’t love him. She’s using him._

The thought had started to creep into her head in those tense days before the battle and even now it still curls around her heart like the ice-cold fingers of the Night King had once and momentarily wrapped around her neck.

Arya turns onto her side. Her frostbitten nose, coated with a minty-smelling salve by the Eyrie’s maester, itches. That day in the godswood had been a turning point. She knows that she had spoken the truth--she may have respected Daenerys, perhaps even grudgingly admired her, but she had never _trusted_ the woman. She was and is an unknown force, with ambition and pride bright in her eyes, the daughter of the man who had killed her grandfather and uncle, the sister of the man who…

Arya opens her eyes and stares off into the dancing shadows of her room.

Jon.

Gods.

After a few more moments, she realizes that she will not be falling asleep, no matter how worn her body is. Her mind is still spinning in dizzying circles and it always keeps coming back to Jon and Daenerys. The only thing she can do as she waits is think. And it hurts, all of it. The mystery of her escape, the ravaged bodies of her guards, the black ice slicking the dark halls--none of it is as crushing as the thought of the two of them together. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, and crosses the room to where her boots have been warming by the fire. She pulls them on over her stocking feet and, after securing her swordbelt around her slim hips, ventures off into the halls of the Eyrie.

When she arrived at the Bloody Gate (a memory then of the Hound--of Sandor--and the horror of the Red Wedding still bleeding upon her soul, whispers of death in the Vale, and hysterical laughter bubbling up from within her chest), it had taken longer than she would have liked to convince the guards there that she was who she said she was. It had been both a disappointment and a relief that news from the capital had not yet reached the Vale--it meant that Arya still had time before the knives and fire caught up with her but it also meant she had to argue longer than she thought necessary to convince the guards of her intentions.

Then there was the hike up towards the Gates of the Moon, where it was much more lively than the Eyrie is now. Arya had been told that it was simply because that in the winter, it was easier to supply the lower castle than the one higher up in the mountains. Arya had scoffed at first until, to the irritation of the Vale guardsmen, she decided to make the trek herself. Knowing who she was, they had no choice but to send two guards to accompany her.

The Eyrie continues to be nearly empty for a castle of its size. Since her arrival, someone mentioned that there might be four hundred people spread out in the Eyrie’s towers, a number that slowly dwindles on the days when the snowstorm abates slightly. In the few days she has been here, she thinks she has probably come across every single one of them--not a terribly difficult feat, even if she accounts for the numerous towers that make up the castle. Most people seem to cluster in the main castle, especially in the lower levels. The kitchens are also a surprising gathering place (and more than one cook has tried to shove food at her, clucking their tongues at her skinny frame and her bruises and her frostbite).

This time, she avoids the kitchens and heads towards the main hall and where she had first laid eyes on her cousin. She had not been terribly impressed by what she had seen and Sansa’s stories had given her reason to be wary of a possibly impetuous, self-absorbed lord...but she also knew that appearances could be deceiving. And it had been years since Sansa had been in the Vale. Robin struck Arya as terribly sheltered though not nearly naive as his upbringing would surmise.

 _He plays the game just like Sansa_ , Arya thinks as she strolls down the corridor leading to one of the main hall. The Eyrie is impossibly drafty and chill and it seems far colder tonight than it has been all other nights she has been here. The Vale of Arryn, of course, has plenty of trees to cut down to use as firewood but Arya still suspects heating a castle this large and this high up in the mountains is a never-ending and often fruitless task.

Still, should she be able to see her own breath?

Wrinkling her nose, she is about to turn down a hall when she hears voices far off to her left, down another corridor that she has passed often in these past few days but has not explored. She frowns in curiosity before turning on her heel, following the voices into the darkness. The Eyrie is a rather simple castle to figure out--nothing at all compared to the maze of dungeons and underground halls that sprawl beneath the Red Keep. There are halls and there are towers, all perched precariously along the side of a mountain, defiant in gale and in storm. Her footsteps are swallowed up by shadows and by the high-arching paths.

The voices continue to get louder as Arya approaches a door that has been slightly and haphazardly left ajar, as if whomever had entered or exited the room had been in such a rush, they had not bothered to close it properly. Silently, she leans against the wall next to the door--if and when it opens again, she will be unseen, a shadow in a shadow. Meanwhile the argument inside the mysterious room continues to ebb and flow like the tide. One of the voices she immediately recognizes is Robin’s while the other is some other and older nondescript male, one of many Arya assumes she has stumbled across in the past few days. She closes her eyes, stills her breathing to shut out the whistling of the winds outside...and listens.

“--more than that,” the older man is saying. “You know we have had problems with them but it is abnormal for them to be as spooked as they are.”

“But you won’t let me _speak_ to any of them.” Robin’s voice is irritated, petulant. “It’s all gossip anyway and you won’t let me listen to any of it. What am I supposed to do with that? Send more ravens down to the Gates of the Moon? Tell Lord Lynderly to send the remaining clans west? Unleashing them on the riverlands, especially with that storm barreling down from the north, isn’t going to win me any favors with the Tullys.”

“They are your kin. We can send a raven to your uncle--”

“I’ve never met Uncle Edmure and I don’t want to.” There is a pause. “Have we heard back from Winterfell? From Sansa?”

Even with the doors closed, Arya can hear the terribly-disguised hope and interest in the young man’s voice. She bites back a smile in spite of herself, remembering the way her cousin’s face had lit up a few days ago when he mentioned Sansa. It is not so impossible to realize that the young man is clearly smitten with her sister, though Arya imagines that Sansa would probably crush him from sheer force of will. There is still too much of his upbringing that Arya thinks makes him...perhaps not weak but at the very least incredibly naive. 

Still, she thinks again, just as Sansa had spent many years under the tutelage of Littlefinger, so had Robin. Sansa’s stories about him had left Arya thinking that perhaps he would be easy to convince into lending his assistance to their cause, to stand against a queen driven mad by her ambition and her anger. But the rash boy she had imagined had instead been prudent and cautious and suspicious (though, again, with Littlefinger as a tutor, how could one be anything but?). She can’t truly fault him if she admits that to herself. Robin knows Sansa--he _doesn’t_ know her. And here she comes with proclamations of doom and war, of a dragon queen hellbent on conquest.

Jon’s hand on her shoulder, his face etched in concern, blood and ashes and fire and screams scarring her…

_Wait for me..._

_He chose_ me _._

A dragon queen. A winter king.

It comes to her then, as it always does, and she cannot shake the memory of the godswood in Winterfell, of the frigid shock that sliced through her like a sword through bone and sinew, of Bran’s implacable calm and Jon’s troubled expression and Sansa’s sudden pale rigidity. Bran’s words still echo in her ears, as she stands under the tree that Ned Stark used to sit beneath, Ice on his lap and a whetstone in his head. The long-dead father...and the lies he took with him to the grave.

 _That’s not true_ , she remembers saying, looking from one brother to the next, her words silently echoed by Sansa’s disbelieving shake of her head. _Jon. Jon, that’s not true._

And his eyes, impossibly haunted and sad, meeting hers. _It’s true, Arya. I’ve never been a Stark._

_We’re family. The four of us. The last of the Starks._

_You gave him a choice._

The wolves had howled. The wolves had _howled._ And the dragon, the drowned dragon, had risen from the sea and her brother--who is _not_ her brother--had chosen the queen with madness in her blood. 

_Stop_ , she thinks, as her thoughts start to spiral. _Stop_. Inside the room, she can hear Robin saying, “No, I haven’t given her an answer. What exactly am I supposed to say? I don’t know what’s happened in the capital. None of our ravens are returning, and this storm is never going to end. I can’t even go down to the Gates of the Moon without you preaching at me about the dangers.” The older man makes some sort of protesting noise but Robin continues, “I will wait for a response from someone. But until then, I won’t give her an answer. Only once have people fought against the dragons and won.”

“A wise decision, my lord,” the older man admits quietly. “But there are rumors..."

Arya hears Robin scoff. “I can hear _these_ rumors but nothing about the mountain clans?”

“One is politically relevant. The clans are not.”

Robin makes a disgusted noise. “The clans are politically relevant to the safety of the Eyrie and all of the Vale. Just because you think it’s not worth it to discuss them and why in the world they’ve been fleeing from the mountains doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t.” There is a pause, long enough for Arya to lean into the door and the shadows, as if reaching for the rest of the conversation. “You think it’s nothing, don’t you? The Milk Snakes would never have joined with--”

“They are a superstitious lot and tales of dragons were bound to reach them. Perhaps they saw safety elsewhere than high up in the mountains where even the winged beasts can reach.”

“You sound scared of them, Lord Redfort.”

The other man’s response is too quiet to hear but judging by Robin’s snort of derision, it must not have been too much of a placating answer. Arya frowns. The two knights that had grudgingly led from the Gates of the Moon to the Eyrie had tried to engage her in conversation--mostly about what had taken place at Winterfell. But Arya’s mind had been a million miles away, to her siblings in Winterfell and the danger they were in if Jon didn’t...if the dragon queen...no, Arya could not stand to answer their questions about the dead and the armies of winter. But even between the two knights themselves, conversation had been stagnant. She had not once heard them mention any concerns of the Vale mountain clans.

The stories she had heard in her travels had been sparse, regarding the so-called wildlings of the mountains. If they are anything like their northern brethren, the tales of dragons should not be enough to frighten them into running. Arya frowns, tilting her head back to rest against the alcove wall. She stares up at the blue-black shadows high overhead. Does it truly matter to her? Does she care? The less people harmed by the fires of the dragon queen the better but...

“I’ll hear no more of it tonight,” Robin suddenly says. The older man--Lord Redfort, apparently--starts to protest but Robin cuts him off. “I don’t want to talk in circles. I’ve told you that what I plan to do with my cousin. The rest is a waiting game. Be glad that I am not marching down to the Gates of the Moon like it is my right to as Lord of the Eyrie and riding north to Winterfell or south to King’s Landing. What have you and Lord Royce always said? Be prudent. Be patient. Well fine. I’m being both. Now prudently and patiently see _your_ way to the door.”

Arya sinks into the shadows just as the door of the library swings open and a familiar bearded man, his cheeks flushed with annoyance, storms out. She can see that he is far too irritated to notice her--a lack of awareness that she has realized far too many people have, to their detriment--and she watches as he disappears around the corner at the far end of the hall. She waits for a moment or three longer, watching the door and waiting for it to open again to emit Robin...but there is nothing but silence beyond.

She remembers, again, Sansa’s stories about Robin Arryn, the spoiled boy who had apparently sucked milk from his mother’s breast for years after he should have been weaned. Arya is not one to dismiss how much people can change in a few years’ time--she looks at her own sister and her brothers. She looks at herself. They’re not the children they once were. The only ones who never changed, who would never change, are Robb and Rickon, gone into the dust of time, by dagger and arrow, treachery and cruelty. She reaches for the door, her heart constricting at the memory of the brothers she lost ( _Grey Wind’s eyes meeting hers, the dying light in the amber hue, the whimper and then silence_ ), and pulls it open.

Arya has seen several of the towers that make up the Eyrie in the few days since she has been here--towers to hold court in, towers to hold prisoners in, towers for the servants, towers for lords. But she has not yet seen this singular tower, smaller than all the rest, but rising higher and higher and higher with shelves and shelves of books. Stained glass windows are peppered next to the shelves, darkened now in the middle of the night so that only the sconces holding torches provide any sort of light. But even they cannot permeate the shadows that soar to fascinating heights overhead and there is a sort of foreboding silence that the darkness and the quiet bring.

Arya frowns, scanning the catwalks high overhead and the walkways holding the shelves of knowledge. It does not take her eyes long to adjust to the shadowed room but she cannot see any movement in the high walkways of the library tower. And if she stills her heart and closes her eyes, she cannot hear the heavy footsteps of a person trying, and failing, to remain silent--an impossible feat for anyone, if someone with Arya’s talents is listening.

Wait.

She scans the room. No. She _does_ hear footfalls. But they are not coming from overhead. She lets her gaze sweep around the ground level of the library before resting on a heavy curtain just to her right. The footsteps are getting quieter. And then there is a dull and muffled thump...and the footsteps are gone. Narrowing her eyes, she walks towards the curtain, brushing her fingers across the heavy dark velvet. She looks behind her. There is an identical curtain on the opposite side of the room. 

_Odd_ , she thinks. And then she pulls it back.

It does not truly surprise her to see the hidden door--it has no handle and the edge of the frame fits so seamlessly into the wall that perhaps anyone else might not have noticed that this section of wall is a door in the first place. Arya smiles humorlessly. She is no stranger to hidden doors and passages--Winterfell may not have that many (at least not that she is aware of, Bran would know better, he had always been the explorer, long before his legs had been crippled by the Kingslayer) but didn’t her adventures and her hardships start with hidden corridors beneath the Red Keep in King’s Landing?

It takes a few moments to shove the door open--it is so tightly fitted to the wall that she has to put considerable effort into throwing it open--and when it does fly forward, a bitingly cold gust of wind screams up the stairwell beyond to blast her in the face and ruffle even the heavy velvet curtain. Arya grimaces, pulling the door shut behind her, and glances down at the stairwell. There is nowhere to go except down and the stairwell is perilously dark. She sees that the arrowslits to her left cast some light onto the stairs but not nearly enough to see by. She touches the walls to both sides of her and realizes that she does not even need to extend her arms completely out to brace herself. Slowly and silently, she descends, sensing the slick ice on the stairs beneath her feet. She cannot see her breath like she could in the hall--it is too dark for that--but it is cold enough that she knows it is there.

The landing makes itself known a few steps before she reaches it--she can see flickering light near the bottom of the door on the landing. Despite not fitting as snugly in its frame as the door above, they are still both made of the same material as the tower itself...and this door actually has a handle. Arya senses that the stairwell continues even further down into more darkness but there are no more arrowslits beyond--it is nothing but sheer blackness beyond this landing. And she can hear faint humming beyond the door--no, Robin has not gone further down the tower.

She looks down at the light again, briefly debates going back to her room and leaving the boy to whatever illicit activities he has gotten himself into...and then shrugs against the thought, pushing the door open.

The room is tiny with a ceiling so low that she wonders if Sansa would concuss herself walking into the room. The claustrophobic feeling is not at all helped by the dozens and dozens of piles of books of varying heights around the perimeter of the room and on the table and beneath the table and on the windowsills. There is barely room to skirt around the table to reach for another pile, and the only place in the room that is not occupied with books is a single chair...and that is because it is currently occupied by a gaping Robin Arryn, his feet kicked up onto the table.

He stares at her for a moment longer before his brow furrows in irritation. He brings his feet to the floor with a solid thud that manages to sound just as annoyed as his expression looks. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“You’re not quiet,” Arya says with a shrug, still glancing around at the books. “What is this place?”

“A room where I can read,” Robin replies testily. “In peace. That means without long-lost cousins dropping in and bothering me. Go away.”

Arya kneels down next to one of the piles, frowning at the titles. One in particular catches her eye and she reaches forward to pull it out of the stack. The other books lying on top of it go tilting sideways onto the floor. Rubbing her fingers over the faded cover and embossed lettering, she says, “You’ve read all of these?” Robin is silent for a moment, and she can feel his cautious judgment in the air. She isn’t surprised. From the subjects of some of these books, she supposes that his guardians would keel over dead if they knew what he was reading. She allows herself to smile, though her back is slightly turned towards him. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. I know how to keep a secret.”

_I swear it._

She is glad her face is turned away from Robin because she can feel the expression of pain that spasms across her face. She closes her eyes against it as the young lord slowly responds, “Most of them. There are more...but these are the ones I’ve managed to bring up so far.”

Ah, so that must explain where the stairwell led further down to. She schools her face into a neutrally curious expression, momentarily cursing the fact that all of her existing faces had burned at Winterfell during the attack. It is a skill she knows she has not earned, if the disapproving look Jaqen had given her before she had fled the House of Black and White had been any indication. She will run from them, she knows, for the rest of her life. 

_A girl is no one. A girl is someone. A girl_ lies _._

 _I didn’t lie_ , Arya thinks. _I didn’t lie to him. I didn’t lie to Jon. I would have kept my promise. I would have been happy for him_. 

_A girl pretends. A girl lies to her family. A girl lies to herself._

These are troubling thoughts and ones she doesn’t even want to consider in the presence of someone else, someone she barely knows, despite their shared blood from mothers long since dead. So instead, she stands, keeping the book she had picked up in her hands. Turning back to face Robin, she sees him watching her warily. With a grimace that may have once aspired to be a smile, she tosses the book onto the table, narrowly missing the lantern that is perched at the center. “You’re reading about magic. All of these books are about the higher mysteries and the religions of the east. Why?”

Robin narrows his eyes at her. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” Arya tilts her head to the side slightly, kicking at the remnants of a chair that is buried beneath another pile of books. “But I fought something magical a few weeks ago. And I’ve seen dragons. Maybe I have more of an open mind about the stuff you’re reading.”

A black beast soaring overhead. A girl sobbing in the arms of her mother. The burned husks they both had become.

“You think it’s silly.” Robin lowers the book he had been reading onto his lap and runs his fingers through his hair, ruining the perfectly coiffed style. The movement is so unconscious though that Arya supposes that his guardians are forever in a state about the young lord ruining his immaculate appearance. She sees too that his fingers smudged with dust and ink stains from the book, and that his tunic is bound to be creased with wrinkles from the way he is slouched in his chair. She says nothing though so he continues, “Just because I haven’t seen any of what you’ve seen doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Magic isn’t fanciful,” she responds dryly. “I bet you’re reading these books imagining great adventures. It isn’t like that. Magic has brought nothing but death. Dragons. Witches. Fire gods. Walking corpses. Winter incarnate. All of it. You think it’s a dream. It’s not. It’s a nightmare.”

Robin frowns. “You say that like it can’t be used for good. It’s power. Power can be used for anything. Doesn’t it depend on the people who have it?”

“Like you?” Arya gives her cousin a long look. “Is that why you’re reading these books? Because you want the sort of power that comes from..." she gestures at the book she has thrown on the table, “...from the Faceless Men? From the Old Gods? From the red priests of Asshai? You’re already a lord of Westeros. That’s more than a lot of people can say. Why do you need more power?”

A scowl passes across the young man’s face and it does not have, Arya notes with mild interest, a modicum of shame or embarrassment in it. His next words to her are simultaneously exasperated and angry. “You think I’m reading them because I want to be, what, a Targaryen? A sorcerer? A king? Has it ever occurred to you that some people read because they like learning things?”

“I wouldn’t have pictured you the sort.”

That causes Robin to flush angrily and he closes his book with a snap before rising to his feet. He’s taller than her--most everyone is--but she has long since been past the point where people can use their physical presence to intimidate her. She only watches him with mild interest, her brow cocked in faint amusement. Perhaps it had been cruel to say--no matter what the stories Sansa had told her about him, there is no denying that she doesn’t truly know this young man, this cousin. And if she wants his help in overthrowing Daenerys, alienating him is not exactly a smart move on her part. 

But...

“You don’t know me,” Robin says and there is just enough of a heated tone in his voice that Arya wonders if he is actually angry with her personally or what she _represents_ by her cool dismissal of his reading for knowledge. “Whatever you think you know, it’s wrong. I’m the Lord of the Eyrie and by all rights, you are my guest. But you are not my equal and you will not speak to me as such.”

Arya can’t help it--she laughs a bit. “But I’m your cousin. And I’m older than you.”

Robin narrows his eyes at her. “Are you joking?”

“No one has ever called me funny.”

A moment passes.

And then Robin rocks on his heels with a glower, rubbing at his arms before slouching back down into his seat, clearly done with her teasing and poking and priding. It is only then that Arya notices that despite the fact that the room is stuffed full of books acting as insulation and despite the fact that the lantern has most likely been blazing fiercely since long before she shoved her way into the room, the room itself has a physical chill in it that cannot be explained. She frowns at the windows opposite the door and sees to her surprise, silver-blue light peeking from around the stacks of books. 

Have the storms finally died down?

For some reason, her neck begins to itch and something like unease settles between her shoulder blades. 

The storms have died down before. It had never been this cold.

“It’s colder than it was,” Robin says with a shrug as if noticing the expression on her face, reaching for one of the candles. The flame flickers as icy winds whistle in through the windows. Arya stares at it for a long moment, as the fire dances and twirls on its wick, casting dancing golden shadows on the low ceiling and onto the silver-blue moonlight whispering in. There is frost on the windowsill and beyond she can see the threatening loom of black clouds rimmed in white moonlight.

_It’s colder than it was._

The chill that has tickled between her shoulder blades settles in Arya’s bones.

_She is staring into the night. The tongues of fire that licked the steel of the Dothraki arakhs have all gone out. There is only darkness and moonlight...and the thunder of an approaching and unseen dead horde, winks of blue eyes in the shadows and rising overwhelming stench of decay and guttural inhuman noises from rotten throats...louder and louder and louder in the darkness until all of Winterfell shakes with it…_

She walks towards the window, almost as if in a trance...and stares out at the mountains of the Eyrie.

They are swarming with death.

Across the way, she sees the sky cells that are empty of prisoners. Along the face of the mountain below them, she sees them, swiftly crawling and climbing up the ice-cloaked rock and stone. Most do not move with the jerky single-minded strength of the corpses at Winterfell. They are gray and black shadows, ringed by slender white wraiths, moving in and amongst their number with a grace impossible to place. Even as some lose their grip and fall (fall, fall, fall, such a long way down), they are silent. They do not scream. They do not shriek. They climb. They climb inhumanely fast, drawn to the light and the hot blood within the castle. They are nightmare.

They are Arya's nightmare.

The nightmare she thought she ended.

Clenching her jaw so hard, she is sure she will shatter it, she leans further out the window and looks down. 

Blue eyes meet her own. 

There are dozens of them. Hundreds. Some are corpses, wearing the furs of the mountain clans (and oh gods the people far below at the Gates of the Moon, Robin's words come back to her and it nearly _strangles_ her). There are the white spectres too and close up she can see the demonic creatures with hollow empty sockets save for the pinpricks of blue shining like winter stars, jaws gaping black and bloody. Far below, stymied by its own mass, is a shadowcat of unimaginable proportions, a creature of black shadows and fur, haunches raised, its fangs bared. It is not decaying but its eyes are bluer than anything Arya has ever seen, bluer even than winter itself. And even farther below, she sees the Vale itself tremble as if letting out a sigh and a shiver, and realizes that the entire floor of the valley is teeming with shadows, down into the darkness, a pit, an abyss.

_You said I’d shut many eyes forever._

_What do we say to the god of death?_

Her neck _burns_.

She senses heat at her shoulder and hears her cousin let out a startled and tremulous curse. It breaks her from her trance. She spins away from the window, eyes scanning the tiny room. There is nothing here to use for a fight. Even if they brought flame to paper and wood, it would only turn this room into a small furnace, a tiny fire against an impossible wave of death and darkness (she cannot think of _how_ this is happening, cannot dare to, the Night King’s eyes burrowing into her own, his hand choking off her breath, he was dead, he was dead, he was _dead_ ). No, they had to warn the rest of the castle.

Arya hurries to the door before realizing that Robin is not right behind her. She throws a quick glance over her shoulder as she flings the door open. The young lord is still standing at the window, pale and stricken as his gaze darts between the creatures climbing up the mountain just below the window he stands at and across the way towards the sky cells. She scowls. “If you stay here, you die.”

The words don’t seem to resonate within him at first and Arya is prepared to bolt up the stairs without him to warn the rest of the castle’s inhabitants. But she watches him break his gaze away from the horrors of outside, his dark gaze sweeping across the room. There is still trepidation lining his face, a terror that Arya has seen on the face of many men and women in her time (the bells and an entire city collapsing around her, _save me, save us, Seven help us, gods no no no_ ). But there is something else too and...

Robin leans across the table and grabs the lantern still burning brightly. Then, with a forceful heave, he throws it onto the pile of books nearest the windows.

“Go!” he shouts at Arya, shoving her into the stairwell just beyond the door as the flames, encouraged by the cold winds sweeping in from the windows, catch the old papers. Arya sees the beginning of an inferno before Robin slams the door shut behind him.

“That won’t stop them,” Arya chides as they begin to race up the narrow stairway, both of them cursing vehemently as they slip on the icy steps. “They’ll just keep climbing. They don’t stop.”

“I know,” Robin snaps back. “But do you think the two of us can spread alarm faster than fire and smoke can? If the other towers don’t see the flames, they’ll at least smell the smoke. It’ll give us _some_ time.”

 _Stupid. They’ll just smother it_ , Arya thinks as they reach the door leading into the library, remembering how the Night King’s army infiltrated her home. And that was with human and giant corpses only. She never saw the demonic skeletal wraiths that now shimmer alongside the mountain face at the battle of Winterfell. There had been no blue-eyed wild beasts, no heaving shadows covering an entire valley. Her neck burns, as if Robin had thrown the lantern and the hot oil within it on her instead of the books.

He’s dead. He’s _dead_.

_What do we say to the god of death?_

Even as Robin shoulders the door close behind him, even as they both race towards the door of the library, Arya can feel something climb into her throat, something that she thought she had felt the last of in Winterfell, in King’s Landing.

Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. What a year this month has been here in Italy.
> 
> Sorry about the long wait between chapters--I promise I have not abandoned this story. Real life sort of swallowed up my writing time these past few weeks. As one of the many memes floating around has mentioned, you guys remember when last year the biggest thing we were upset about was Game of Thrones' series finale? Ah, simpler times.
> 
> Next chapter: The Judge, as we fly back to King's Landing for a Dany POV. Then it's Olyvar, Sansa, Tyrion, and Jon POVs, as the Long Night Part Deux Electric Boogaloo revs up.


	25. The Judge

The sun has not shone since the day she destroyed King’s Landing.

It is the one thing that keeps coming back to her mind as she sits at the table across from one of the northern men and a Sand Snake, even as the man continues to speak to her in increasingly frustrated tones. A handful of her Unsullied stand about the room as guards and she vaguely notices that the grim expressions on their faces harden each time the man across from her shifts, even though Dany knows that they disarmed him before he came into this room. She is not terribly frightened of this man--no, they respect Jon too much and have too much fear of Drogon to bring harm to her--and it keeps her from entirely focusing her attention on him.

Dany gazes at the pale gray light shimmering down onto the room, motes of ash and dust and snow still falling haphazardly, even weeks after her conquest. The snow is a constant companion now, it seems--as if a parting gift from the dark-eyed young man who shares her blood and her heart. But the ash and dust--still thick on overhead timbers and the red-tiled roofs of the city and the streets that are still littered with the maggot-infested bodies of those whom her Dothraki and her Unsullied still have not found and burned and buried--are a silent whispering condemnation of that day, of the fire and blood she had promised and delivered with great prejudice on a city filled with screaming men and sobbing women and terrified children.

 _You need to tell Tyrion_.

She has not.

It has been nearly a week since she and Jon parted ways at that lake in the riverlands and several days since she told a few of the leaders under Jon’s command of his departure back to Winterfell. Have the northerners become more restless since? She is not sure. She does not spend much time with them. Instead, she finds herself wandering the ruined halls of the Red Keep or soaring above the city on a dragon’s back, as if trying to fly away from the chains on the ground, chains of destruction of her own making.

She closes her eyes.

Earlier, she had watched as Drogon spiraled high over the city and had wondered if the people who had died had momentarily been filled with awe upon seeing a dragon before their eyes blistered and their skin blackened and their bones crumbled into dust. No mother thinks of her child as a monster, not truly--she had birthed Drogon and his brothers, had nursed them and raised them and had always felt a burning pride in her breast whenever she saw the majestic beasts they had-- _have_ \--become.

_Heat beneath her hands and an impossible monstrous rage in her heart, all-consuming and terrible, and the world is filled with the sounds of bells and of horrible inhuman shrieking..._

“Your Grace?”

Dany opens her eyes, pulling herself out of the memory with an effort she hopes does not come across on her face. It is the woman who has spoken, the Sand Snake. She had arrived a day after Jon’s departure, her face a mask of curiosity--and curiosity only--as she stepped from her ship and gazed about at the ruins of the Iron Fleet still littering the Blackwater. Most of the pale bloated corpses that had washed up onto shore had been taken care of by the Unsullied while others had been carried off to sea by the tide--but the skeletons of the ships and the smoking streets of the city still spoke of the destruction that had been wrought about them. 

Initially, Dany had met Sarella Sand with a cold and wary caution, unsure of her intentions or the meaning behind the Prince of Dorne’s rebuke by sending a bastard niece to speak in his stead. But once the Dornish woman had finished gazing at King’s Landing and at the Dothraki guards and the Unsullied and finally at Dany herself, her smile had been small but without any trace of mocking. Ever since, Dany had found the woman’s cool demeanor and candor to be a refreshing difference to the uncertainty around her, though she is still doubtful if she will ever trust her.

“I apologize,” Dany says with a smile that she can sense is more like a grimace. “My thoughts are concerned with other matters. What was it you were saying?”

The man--a Manderly, she thinks Jon had told her--smiles tiredly. “You and he have that in common--the weight of the world on your shoulders and your minds a million leagues away.”

Dany’s heart twists. _Jon_.

“I had noted,” Sarella says, giving the Manderly man a frowning glance, “that it has been several weeks since what these armies are calling the Day of the Dragon. The corpses have been removed. Burned. Buried. But the city still sags with the weight of grief. It is very silent, Your Grace. You will need more than eunuchs and bloodriders to rebuild from the ashes.”

Dany watches as the Manderly man frowns, as if discomforted by the words being spoken that he most likely had only ever thought. That is certainly one thing that she appreciates about the Dornish bastard--she does not hide nor mince her words. “Is Dorne pledging its common folk?”

Sarella smiles, the gold in her black braids winking even in the gray gloom of the early afternoon. “That would be for Prince Olyvar to decide, not a lowly bastard niece. But I can certainly bring your concerns to him once I return home.”

The Manderly man’s frown deepens and he looks back towards Dany. “I spoke with my lord about this before he returned to Winterfell. It is not right to keep the northerners here longer than need be. They want to return to their families, rebuild their own homes, bury their dead. You cannot ask them to do that for strangers before they have even done it for themselves. It has been too long since many of them have seen home. The war for them is over.”

 _The war is not over_ , something in Dany’s heart whispers. How could it be, with the North, under Sansa Stark’s direction, squirming under the threat of rulership by a dragon? It is not that she does not trust Jon--in fact, he is the only confidant left in the world whom she trusts implicitly. But she knows that he loves his sisters, especially the youngest (the one standing in front of her in the throne room, promises of winter and death on her lips, hate poorly disguised in her eyes), remembers the fond smile on his face when he discussed them during their voyage to Winterfell in what feels like several lifetimes ago.

But can she say that to this man in front of her? She does not know him. It is this small thing that has started to haunt her more and more--she has come to Westeros to break the wheel, to reclaim her throne in the city her ancestor founded, and everywhere she has turned, she has been met with nothing except fear and suspicion and thinly-veiled disgust. The Dothraki and the Unsullied had at first brought survivors of her onslaught but she had quickly put an end to that when she saw the unmitigated loathing and terror in the common folks' eyes.

_Protector of the Realm. Breaker of Chains._

Her throat works against the panic building within her, against the nausea that now seems to be as true a companion as the snow. It is only through sheer force of will that she manages to say, “I understand your concern, ser. Without your assistance, I never would have been able to reclaim my ancestor’s throne. The debt that I owe you and your men is nearly insurmountable.” _But I can’t let you leave, not back to Sansa, so she can turn you against me. Not without Jon here_. “But the winter storms are still here and I cannot repay your service with a harsh trek through the crownlands and the riverlands. Once the Warden of the North returns, I would like to consult--”

“You cannot expect us to stay here until spring,” the knight cuts her off, his brow furrowed. “We are made of hardier stuff than you would think, Your Grace. A journey home through this sort of storm does not frighten us.”

 _They are frightened of me but they do not respect me_ , Dany thinks to herself. If it were not for Drogon, they would have left already. She feels the dark gaze of the Sand Snake on her, and she remembers the decisions and the inactions and compromises that led to the rise of the Sons of the Harpy in Meereen. It was with fire and blood that she had conquered the slaving cities, that turned Slaver’s Bay into the Bay of Dragons, that caused the Dothraki to follow her across the Narrow Sea. But what had worked in lieu of diplomacy in the east was too foreign to those in the west, and it has crippled her. Fear led to respect in her previous trials. 

But here?

She cannot bring herself to harness rage against this man though. The ties she has with her allies are too weak--the Iron Islands have been strangely quiet since her victory over King’s Landing. The Westerlands are leaderless without the Lannisters (and with her former Hand still being held at arm’s length). The Reach is broken and burned after the deaths of the Tyrells. Dorne is an unknown variable with an unknown face as a supposed loyalist. 

And the North...

 _It’s not about convincing_.

 _Jon_...

Dany opens her mouth to reply, even as her own fears and doubts struggle to choke the words right out of her, but the Dornish woman beats her to it. She turns her black eyes towards the northerner, her full lips thinned out in a frown, and she leans over the table, as every bit as graceful and deadly as her moniker.

“The Mother of Dragons has told you that she wants to consult with the Warden of the North before she makes a final decision,” Sarella croons, every trace of her Dornish accent gone. “She wishes to repay your loyalty with safe passage home and you look to contradict her, to soothe your own selfish longings. I doubt that your Lord Snow would be pleased about your indiscretion when it comes to your queen. Or must she make an example of your discourtesy?”

The Manderly man flinches away from the Sand Snake, though Dany can see the anger in his eyes at being so pointedly cut down. There is a part of her that is glad of it, to see his pride stung, but there’s another part of her that is so very, very tired of accommodating the emotions of those who call the North their home. Voice clipped, she says, “Ser Marlon, I do appreciate you bringing these concerns to me. Please--if you have any further issues, do not hesitate to let Lord Tyrion know so that we might discuss them promptly. I would hate for there to be any murmurings of dissent amongst the Warden’s men.”

It is a warning.

It is a threat.

The knight blanches and grimaces before nodding his head shortly. Excusing himself with a mutter, he rises and then hurries from the room, leaving only Dany, the Dornish bastard, and a handful of her Unsullied, whose expressions do not lose their tense wariness once the northman has departed.

Dany looks askance at Sarella, who is reaching for the pitcher of wine that has hitherto sat untouched during the meeting. A small sardonic smile touches the other woman’s lips as she pours herself a generous glass of wine. “You’ve wounded his pride, you know,” she says, the faint traces of Dorne easing back into her lilt. “Firstly by equating his importance at this table with that of a female Dornish bastard. Secondly, by dismissing the importance your paramour has placed on him. But perhaps you are not a dragon without fire--if he dares rile up the rest of the northern army, you will know exactly who is the instigator.” She raises the glass to her lips in a small salute before drinking.

 _A dragon without fire. Have I become a tame dragon?_ Dany’s eyes fall back to the window, where the snow continues to drift down from the sky. She knows it’s not true.

And yet.

She knows why she is being cautious. She knows why she isn’t--why she can’t--lash out in irritation or fury or anything else of the sort. It is the fear that gnaws at her, the fear of her own actions...and the fear that the great rage, that terrible and alien fury that settled into her chest like an inferno, will return again. If she is supposed to be as mad as the people have always whispered, as Tyrion and Varys and everyone else believed, then why does this terror and fear grip her heart like a vice? She remembers speaking words of justification to Jon in front of the Iron Throne but now, weeks later, they taste like death on her tongue. And she has sworn--she has _sworn_ \--that she will not raze her kingdom to the ground in order to break the North and to break House Stark.

_Because you’re still the queen who broke the chains of slaves, who flew to the north to save strangers, who risked her life to protect innocents. You’re still her. You haven’t changed. You haven’t been lost._

It feels impossible that he still has faith in her, after what she has done. It feels even more impossible for him to save those words when she scarcely believes in herself anymore.

She has won the throne. She is the queen.

_Then that makes you a tyrant, Your Grace._

She is paralyzed.

“A queen rules,” she finds herself saying, her voice quiet. Davos’ words come back to her then, just as stinging a reminder as her own memories on a dragon’s back, a city burning to nothingness below her. “If I spend my entire reign putting out fires of those who always wish to disagree with me, I shall never actually rule. I will not take away a man’s freedom to disagree with me.”

Sarella lowers her glass, cocking an eyebrow. “Some fires need to burn. It is the only way some people learn their lesson to not touch it. They must be burned first.”

“Is that what you would advise me on behalf of Prince Olyvar?” Dany asks, cocking her head to the side. Exhaustion tugs at her. “To let the northern army and the North itself burn on a pyre of their own making? If that is the advice that you wish to give in the absence of your uncle, I will readily send you back to Dorne. His support is appreciated but if he will not present himself personally to me, then I can hardly appreciate far-flung platitudes and counsel.”

There is a moment where Dany can see a breath of amusement cross Sarella’s face but she quickly schools her expression into a more dignified and chastised smile. “No, these were not my uncle’s words. There are many things he wants to discuss with you--and hopefully quite soon--but he would not be so callous as to tell you that...at least not right away.” She shakes her head. “No, these words are my own. You see, I have spent quite some time in Westeros while my uncle was gallivanting around the world. I understand the politics of this kingdom a little more than he does. I’m afraid that I am to be more of an observer to report back to him until he feels more comfortable speaking to you himself.”

Dany cannot help herself--she smiles, even if she does feel the strained wariness of it. “I see. While I understand the reasoning, Prince Olyvar would have found a listening ear with me: it seems as if we have similar backgrounds. Being from Westeros without understanding Westeros, strangers in our own country. Perhaps I would not be as frightening and intimidating as he suspects.”

Sarella laughs. “Your Grace, you have two fully grown dragons and have brought a nation to heel in a way that has not been seen since the Conqueror. Between that and your beauty, no red-blooded man worth his weight in gold and silver would think you anything except intimidating.” At the look on Dany’s face, Sarella only laughs again, though there is a more genuine note to it than before. “Do not worry, Your Grace. I am not here to seduce you in my uncle’s stead. I’m afraid my proclivities do not run in either direction and I find this particular game to be rather dull. Besides, if the talk of the men is true, your heart is already spoken for. You are very much like your eldest brother, falling in love with a northerner. Falling in love with a _Stark_.”

Inwardly, Dany stiffens as Sarella reaches to refill her wine glass. This is not something she can think about now but the promise of it scrapes at her utterly raw nerves. If word and gossip ever got back to Dorne that Jon is the product of the union that resulted in the death of their beloved Elia...

Acid churns in her stomach, the ever-present nausea bubbling forth. She stands abruptly and Sarella blinks at her in surprise--no, not surprise. Dany can see the calculations in the woman’s eyes and realizes, too late perhaps, that the words had been meant to sting, even if the true depth of their meaning is unknown to her. She can feel her hands shaking and she tightens them both into fists at her side to hide her disquiet. “Thank you for your honesty, my lady. I will be sure to take your words to heart.” 

Sarella tilts her head to the side. “It is because I mentioned your love, isn’t it? I apologize if I’ve given you cause to be upset. But I feel as if it would be in bad form to dance around the bad history between the Martells and the Starks. Politics is not a game I enjoy either.”

Dany clenches her jaw. “You don’t need to enjoy the game in order to play. If your uncle has concerns about House Stark’s allegiance to House Targaryen, then I will hear it from his lips only. Until then, any qualms House Martell has with the past can wait--I’ve no patience to settle old feuds. The history there is done and buried and nothing we do can change what the dead have done. I have taken my throne with fire and blood but I will set us on a path of peace between all of our Houses. The realm will not bleed from old grievances.”

 _It has bled enough. You have bled it enough_ , a voice cruelly whispers in the back of her mind.

As she brushes past Sarella towards the exit, she cannot quell the shuddering in her heart. She hates this. She hates all of this--the doubt, the fear, the growing self-horror of what she is capable of doing. It seems as if the further and further she moves away from her conquest of the capital, the more and more her confidence wanes. She knows how to rule--she _can_ rule, she has prepared her whole life for this...so why is it that looks around at the city, her city, and becomes too petrified to say or do anything to assert her power? She believes in herself surely? Isn’t that what she said, over a year ago, to a young man dressed in black, on the island where a storm brought her to birth?

_Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself._

Is she still that woman? The woman that freed slaves and birthed dragons, who had made the impossible happen? The Dothraki praise her name and worship the ground she walks on, the goddess who is fire made flesh. The Unsullied have followed her--and will continue to follow her--to hell and back. The North may chafe at their invisible chains and her former Hand may hate her and her Westerosi allies may question her at every turn but Jon believes in her. But she doesn’t want her self-worth to depend on him. She doesn’t want her confidence and her steadiness to depend on this man who has stolen her heart.

She can’t. She won’t. 

The Unsullied guards that have accompanied her to her room prepare to stand outside to guard the door but she pauses just at the entrance. Has she not tried to choke out the doubt that plagues her every move, to act with confidence despite the constant reminder of her failings all around her? Despite being surrounded by loyal masses in those she had brought from the east, she cannot dispel the overwhelming cloak of loneliness that has settled over her. Her brothers have been dead for ages. Her first love, the same. Her loyal handmaidens and bloodriders, Ellaria and the Sand Snakes, Olenna Tyrell, Viserion, Jorah, Missandei--all gone. There has been nothing but silence from Yara and the Iron Islands. Varys had burned for his betrayal. Jon has gone north to Winterfell, Davos to Storm’s End.

She closes her eyes. Where does that leave her? What does she have left if she is standing in the ashes of victory?

_You start again._

Damn it all.

“Bring him to me,” she says quietly to one of the guards. She does not have to say his name. They already know. 

It does not take them long but Dany paces in agitation in front of the fire in her room until there is a sharp knock on the door. She only has a moment to collect herself before the door swings open and the two guards escort Tyrion in. The guards look at her expectantly but Dany only shakes her head. It is the silent affirmation they need and they depart, the door shutting behind them with a click that feels louder than it actually is.

A strained silence falls.

It is the first time they have spoken alone since Dragonstone, when Dany had coldly told him that his next failure would be his last. And here he still stands in front of her, dark circles under his eyes and his beard a bit more ragged than normal...but alive. She remembers that day when she had condemned Arya Stark to death and what had come after with Jon (her cheeks still wet with tears before she took him again and again, desperate for any real thing to hold onto in her life, for one anchor in a sea of uncertainty and loss). And somehow, somewhere along the way, perhaps in a moment of weakness and regret, she had told Jon that she would let Tyrion live, that death would be too merciful for him. Even now, she still cannot decipher the flash of emotion that had been in Jon’s eyes.

She glances at Tyrion now, feeling the ghost of rage towards him for everything he has done to her. It is not nearly as overpowering as that day in the throne room nor is it accompanied by that intoxicating and foreign feeling of victory once she had ravaged the city. No--if anything, the fury is a memory, leaving in its wake a bone-deep exhaustion that suddenly makes her want to do nothing except curl up in her bed and never leave it again.

“I have not seen Jon for several days.”

Of course, Tyrion has never been one to be comfortable with silences. 

“He traveled to Winterfell at my behest.” Not entirely true but Dany does not want to argue semantics. She watches as Tyrion’s eyes narrow but he must bite his tongue because he says nothing. He looks away, his brow crinkled in thought.

She does not want to make things right with him. Everything within her rails against it--he gave her nothing as her Hand except failure after failure, betrayal after betrayal, under the assumption that he was always working on her behalf, that he always believed in her. His guidance had robbed her of allies, had threatened her claim to the throne, had driven the daggers of betrayal deep with each and every decision he made following the battle of Winterfell. He had freed his brother, called her mad and cruel, had sent Jon to kill her and yet...here he stands. Alive. Whole and well.

“You clearly don’t want to speak with me,” Tyrion ventures again after a moment. When Dany doesn’t answer, he continues, “I am used to standing in rooms with queens who hate me. I had quite a bit of practice with my sister.”

“Your mouth will be the death of you,” Dany replies sharply, tossing a glare over her shoulder at the dwarf. He only gives her a tired look and a halfhearted shrug. He starts to take a few steps towards her but pauses when she continues to fix him with a cold glare. Instead, he settles for a sigh.

“Many people have said that. I have outlived most of them. I thought surely you would be the one to make good on your promise...but you apparently have had a change of heart.” Something in his voice changes and Dany remembers the look he had given her in the throne room after her outburst at the Stark girl, the look of confusion and surprise. She has felt that same look on her since...but always in the presence of Jon and Davos and others so that he never spoke whatever thoughts were running through his head. But there is nothing stopping him now, nothing except Dany’s own desire for him not to put it into words. 

“Do not mistake your life as a mercy given,” she says in a rush to keep him from speaking. “Your mistakes led you here as much as they did me. If need be, I can have your tongue cut out so you can watch the consequences of your actions in silence for the rest of your life.”

Tyrion narrows his eyes at her. “You could...but you won’t. Which begs the question: why?” Dany cannot help it--she turns away, her nails digging into her palms. And yet she still feels Tyrion’s eyes on her like a hot branding iron. He sounds tired now. “I have given you remarkably poor counsel over the years. I have cost you armies and allies with my short-sightedness, have betrayed your trust even when I thought I was doing it in your favor. I have lied to you and I have misjudged the wrong people in good faith. I am willing to admit my shortcomings when it came to being your Hand. Is that what you want to hear? I can grovel more, if you’d like, but I doubt it would please either one of us. I am as sure of that as I am sure that the woman who destroyed King’s Landing is not the same woman standing here in this room with me.”

Dany closes her eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“Am I wrong?” She can hear him shift, though not closer to her. “I have had a very poor record when it comes to being right about anything recently but I have seen the look on your face when you discuss what happened that day. I have seen it in the way you look at Jon. It’s in every fiber of your being. It may very well be what caused him to spare your life--he is a better man than most for seeing it first.”

 _A better man_ , Dany thinks as nausea again boils in her stomach, though the bitterness is plagued by weary knowledge. _A better heart, a better ruler. This is how it will always be, to the end of my days, if the truth becomes more widely known. They will always see me at my worst, the judge of who lives and who dies. They will always see him at his best_.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment.

When Dany finally does speak, she hates the faint tremulous note in her voice, hates that there is a part of her that physically defies her longing to show strength in front of this former confidant. “If I am what everyone believes me to be, what should stop me from declaring war on the North? Sansa is as much to blame for what happened as I am. Her sister tried to kill me and wounded my Master of War. The North has done nothing except try to undermine my power ever since we defeated the Night King.”

Tyrion abruptly frowns at her words and his gaze wanders off towards the fire. It is a look that Dany is familiar with and one that she no longer has any patience for. “What is it?”

He looks up at her then, the skeptical frown still bruising his brow. He seems to be weighing his words carefully. “I...have been trying to make sense of it. Some things have no precedent and they are simply humans making human mistakes. I have made mistakes. You have made mistakes. But this--what happened here in King’s Landing--that wasn’t a mistake. No, no. That was something far grander. Also unprecedented, yes, but…” He stops, pressing his lips into a thin, bloodless line beneath his beard. “I never had reason to doubt you until after the battle of Winterfell. There was nothing to doubt until then. So...what changed? You cannot tell me that learning that Jon is your brother's son would be enough to push you towards murdering thousands of people you swore to protect.”

Dany is silent, even though it feels as though her heart is booming like the very storm that brought her into the world. Is he truly saying that he does not believe her capable, under normal circumstances and under the goodness that she had long since promised to wield, to act in a manner so horrifyingly cruel? That cannot be, not after everything he has said to condemn her. It has been weeks since that day but those sorts of feelings only fester--he should hate her more, not less. Perhaps that is what led to her rage, that impossibly overwhelming fury that died in the throne room when Jon chose to stand by her side.

“Perhaps you don’t know me at all then,” she finally says. “Perhaps it was always what must be. Our words are well known. What lurks in our blood even more so. If you think that I want your forgiveness, your... _absolution_ \--”

“No. No, of course not. You’re too proud.” She can see the frustration--and gods, even worse, the _pity_ \--on his face, in his eyes. “But pride is a terrible thing. It blinds people, causes them to think they cannot fail.”

“Like belief?” Dany’s words are soft but she can see that they bring Tyrion up short and she knows that he is remembering the same thing as she, words spoken in the cool inner shadows of a great pyramid, before she pinned metallic damnation onto his chest. He sighs.

“Yes. Like belief.” 

The next words are unspoken but Dany hears them all the same.

_I believed in you._

The silence that falls now is no longer strained but even she can sense the profound grief in it, the anguish and mourning for what was lost between the two of them. That trust, that belief in each other--she knows it died on the same day that King’s Landing fell. Too much has passed, too much has happened, for them to return to that quiet assured place, on the cusp of everything they ever wanted and longed for. No, that story, that promise, ended on the Narrow Sea, and the new one they embarked upon...it became a twisted and terrible thing. It lay in ruins around her, smoking and burned and forgotten.

Finally, she lets out her own sigh, her shoulders dropping slightly as she turns away from him and walks towards the window. It is still snowing outside. “I let you live as an unconditional favor and to pay for your mistakes. Do not think more of it than it actually is.”

She can hear the resignation in Tyrion’s own sigh. “You let me live. I’d imagine there is a part of you that still wants to trust me.”

She does not turn away from the window.

“Trust is like belief.”

A beat, horrible and crushing. Dany does not--cannot--see the look on his face because she knows it will break her heart. “I see.” A moment passes before he continues, his voice void of any emotion. “Does Your Grace wish anything else from me?”

_I want this to never have happened. I want you to speak the truth to me always. I want your counsel. I want to go back to Meereen, before any of this. Before I won and I lost._

“There are many things I wish for. I can have none of them.”

She hears him sigh as he walks away from her, and then the sharp rap of his knuckles against the door. She gestures briefly with her hand once she assumes the Unsullied are in the room, unwilling herself to speak without her voice breaking. 

Yet, before he goes, she can hear Tyrion say, very quietly, an understanding, an impasse, “For what it’s worth, I feel the same.”

And then the door closes and Dany is left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Wanderer


	26. The Wanderer

The galley _Wayward Wind_ sails into the docks of White Harbor as seagulls scream overhead, men shout their orders down from the deck to those standing amongst the cargo loaded at the pier, and snow continues to lazily drift down onto the softly lapping gray-blue waters. There are about three dozen other vessels bobbing in the water along the piers of the Inner Harbor--galleys and merchanters cogs and ferries and the odd whaler or two, most of them lightly dusted with snow. Sailors and deckhands and merchants and longshoremen scurry briskly among the mountains of cargo lining the dock, shoving crates and throwing lines and shouting orders above the din of a bustling pier. Further down, the fish market bustles with activity as vendors hawk their daily catches of lamprey, mussels, crabs, salmon, and whitefish.

Olyvar leans out over the rail of the _Wayward Wind_ to peer at the teeming harbor, unaffected by the cold salty breeze and spray rolling in off the sea. In the far northern distance, he spots dark gray clouds sulking on the horizon, a promise of a more vengeful snowstorm than the fanciful dusting currently sprinkling the city. Perhaps that explains the busier-than-usual bustle about the piers--most outbound captains would want to be well under way before a winter storm batters the bay.

He has only been to White Harbor twice before during his excursions around the world and it was always to escape the chilly north to head to Braavos. As they neared the Outer Harbor earlier and Olyvar had taken to watching the approaching city, one of the northmen had jostled his elbow and grinned at him. “I bet you’ve never seen a snowfall in your life, have you?”

“I’ve made some travels north,” had been Olyvar’s amused response, which seemed to satisfy the sailor just fine. Olyvar had not mentioned that he had been as far as the Shadow Tower along the Wall, nearly fifteen years ago. He had seen the ice-sheathed forests of the lands north of the Wall, as well as snow-capped peaks of the northern mountains and the accompanying rolling white hills and valleys of the Gift. That is not even to mention the monstrosity of the Wall itself. No, Olyvar has seen the farthest northern reaches of the Seven Kingdoms and came to the conclusion long ago that it is not for him.

And yet here he is, at the very mouth of the White Knife, and headed farther north still.

It helps, he thinks, that the crew of this ship are content with believing him to be a Dornish knight from House Santagar. He is too rough around the edges to be a nobleman, let alone a prince. Probably for the best anyway--if he had attempted a diplomatic mission, he would have bungled it beyond rescuing.

Not that Sarella had not given him a piece of her mind when he suggested the idea to her several weeks ago, though Olyvar supposes that had more to do with the fact that he was sending her to King’s Landing in his stead.

“You have no idea how insulting it is to send the bastard niece to sup with whatever queen is on the throne, do you?” Sarella had scoffed. “Lion, dragon--it does not matter. They will be livid that you didn’t come yourself.”

Olyvar had shrugged then and he is still not bothered by it now. Diplomacy had never been an inherent skills of his--no, he left such abilities to his two older brothers. But he had been serious with his words, about the debt owed to House Martell from Houses Targaryen and Stark. There is no one else in the world he trusts as much as Sarella, who, despite her misgivings and sharp tongue, is one of the few family members he knows as well as he knows himself. If there is anyone who would make a suitable liaison to a lion or a dragon (and anyone who could deftly take care of herself if things quickly went south), it is Sarella.

Of course that left him with his own mission.

_I intend to see it paid._

“Are you sure you don’t want to continue with us to Pentos?” the captain says later as he joins Olyvar in disembarking down the gangplank. He rubs at his bald head, squinting towards the dark storm clouds still hours away. “Never knew many Dornish to care for northern winters. Your blood is too thin. You will freeze the moment you first encounter a snowstorm, eh? You see that on the horizon? That does not bode well. Storms that come from the north are only made worse by the sea. You will see--in a matter of days, there will be snow up to your balls.”

Olyvars laughs. “Well, it sounds like I should find warm company soon.”

It is not his intention for coming this far north. Unlike Oberyn, Olyvar’s adventures strayed towards exploring worlds outside of the bedroom and a woman’s embrace (though he has shared a bed with his fair share of women from Lorath to Oldtown to Jinqi). But if the captain thinks him to be a regular knight with a regular knight’s tastes and desires, a pitcher of wine and a hot mouth would be exactly what he is seeking, Dornish or not. He shoulders his pack--the only thing he has brought with him from Sunspear after having learned a long time ago to travel lightly--and claps the captain on the shoulder. “I wish you fair sailing to Pentos.”

The captain smiles, eyes darting back towards the low clouds to the north. “If you change your mind, we’re here until we offload the rest of the cargo. I’ll not be sticking around to see a northern storm. I’ve had enough of winter so far.”

 _Winter_. Olyvar gazes up at the sky, remembering the frost and cold winds that have kept Dorne in their grips for months now. He was not in Westeros when the Citadel made its announcements] that autumn had finally ended and winter was rearing its head. But even on Great Moraq, farther south than even Dorne and leagues and leagues east of Westeros, he had seen glimpses of abnormal weather that even the elders had murmured about: high tides and ravaging storms followed by bitterly cold mornings and blazing hot nights. 

But it is the cold that doggedly followed him from Great Moraq to Sunspear and now to White Harbor. There had almost been a respite but now...

The weight of Oberyn’s scimitar at his side--and the somehow heavy weight of Doran's letter tucked in his tunic--is a constant reminder why he has made this journey. Some of the sailors had remarked on the fine craftsmanship of the sword itself, even as they had quite plainly said they preferred longswords. Olyvar had taken the words in stride, preferring their ignorance as to the sword’s original owner and his own identity to whispers spreading like fire through the Seven Kingdoms. In that, Sarella had at least seen his reasoning for being covert--the North and Dorne’s history had been troubled since Robert’s Rebellion. They both doubted a Martell in the North would have garnered open arms.

No, Olyvar thinks. A Martell in the North is nothing short of a threat.

He takes a few steps down the pier, ignoring the shouts and activity around him. Here, the freshly-fallen snow has turned into black slush and has mixed with horse and seagull shit, which has added its own peculiar stench to the salty tang of the sea and the wares of the fishmongers just beyond the wharf. Altogether, it is an earthy and nauseating stench, completely alien to the rich fragrances of the desert flowers in Dorne. 

_It has been too long since I’ve traveled_ , Olyvar muses as he crosses the shit-stained street and heads towards the taverns and whorehouses lining the dock. _I am getting too used to the smells of the royal gardens._

Despite the chill and the snow--or perhaps because of it--the collection of dockside buildings are teeming with patrons. After all of his journeys, Olyvar has always found it easy to guess which type of innkeeper or whore would be the most likely to give information. Reputable locales have a tendency to be frequented more and are often a hive of travelers from all across the known world. But their closely guarded reputations also means that few of the owners or employees are willing to give up that reputation by passing along actually useful gossip.

On the contrary, the places that look damned to all seven hells--with innkeepers and whores as liable to stab you as feed you and fuck you--often hold gossip closer to the truth, usually obtained from nefarious sources or by nefarious means. The trouble is deciding if any news is worth being poisoned or gutted for.

“Hello, ser,” a voice purrs from a doorway as Olyvar passes by a house that looks as though it falls somewhere in the middle of the spectrum--if it falls anywhere at all. It is nearly inconspicuously jammed between two much larger establishments and he can hear the music and chatter from both of them, even on the street. The house squashed in the middle looks homely and strangely out of place along the dock. He pauses in his stride and glances back in the direction of the voice, only to see standing in the dark entryway a young redheaded woman with freckles splattering her face and her ample bosom. Her words, possibly intended to sound sultry, are slightly belied by her chattering teeth. “Looking for a nice warm meal and a glass of the finest Dornish strongwine you’ve ever tasted?”

Olyvar glances up at the sign hanging above the young woman’s head. It says “The Broken Hen”, the letters faded almost to the point of being unreadable. He is not sure if the joke is in poor taste or not but it does cause him to smile. “And what would you know of Dornish strongwines, my lady?”

His accent startles her, he can see right away. “Oh...I meant...oh!" After taking a moment to stifle her surprise, she grins abashedly, revealing a gap between her teeth that makes her look all of three-and-ten. He finds it surprisingly more endearing than her attempts at seduction only a moment earlier. “Well, ser, I guess you will have to try it and give your expert opinion.”

Olyvar adjusts his pack on his shoulder, glancing around. Behind her, he can hear the din of patrons within and the faint strands of music and singing--though that may be from the two larger buildings that dwarf this place. True, he doesn’t want to spend most of his time traipsing down the wharf, looking for the perfect spot for information, especially as the stormfront moves in. His eyes dart back towards the docks and the sea beyond--the waves are still relatively calm, even as the snowfall gradually becomes something more than a light dusting. He nods.

“I suppose you’re right.”

A few moments later, he finds himself sitting at a small rickety table that has certainly seen better days, drinking a wine that is a mummer’s imitation of a Dornish strongwine (he only shakes his head and chuckles when the redhead asks him about it), and eating from a plate of wine-soaked roasted winter pears and a trio of yellow peppers stuffed with spiced sausage, onions, and mushrooms. 

The food, at least, is better than the wine.

“I don’t see many of the Dornish this far north during winter,” the tavern owner says as he passes by Olyvar’s table soon after he finishes his meal (and is debating whether or not he is desperate enough to drink the wine). Olyvar had earlier seen him giving him curious albeit suspicious looks while eating, clearly wanting to satisfy a question but also still professional enough not to barge over in the middle of a paying guest’s meal. The comment is about as poor an imitation of an offhand observation as the liquid in front of him is of wine. He smiles.

“Rumor had it that winter ended.” Among the crew of the _Wayward Wind_ , it had been the main topic of conversation. That, and the stories that came from the North, about strange coalitions, of the dead breaching the Wall, of a war against two queens, of a city burning from dragonfire. Tales of the latter had piqued his interest when the ship docked in Gulltown a fortnight ago. It had taken only a few probing inquiries to discover that the Seven Kingdoms were once again under the rule of a dragon after the Targaryen queen had quite literally burned King’s Landing to the ground. At that, conversation upon the _Wayward Wind_ had turned hushed and nervous, as the sailors contemplated the ruined economic prospects of one of the busiest ports in Westeros as well as the sudden shift in the monarchy.

Olyvar still doesn’t know what to think of the new Targaryen queen, though he is confident that Sarella’s assessment of her will be accurate. Her letter had spoken of someone prideful but compassionate, stubborn but diplomatic. Though he had long suspected that the battle for King’s Landing would be a bloody disaster, from Doran’s letter still burning tucked against his chest, he never would have thought this mythical queen whose reputation in Essos is already legendary would obliterate a city full of civilians in order to claim her throne.

 _If that’s what awaits Sarella in King’s Landing, what is north in Winterfell_ , he thinks as the tavern owner pulls a chair close to Olyvar’s table.

“There have been false springs before,” the man says, rubbing at his beard. At those words, Olyvar winces as if the letter he is carrying has burst into flames and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms--the last time there had been a false spring, a dragon prince had crowned a wolf maiden the queen of love and beauty, spurning his own wife to do so. 

_Or so the story goes._

Either way, the owner grimaces, as if remembering too the last false spring that had driven a wedge between the North and Dorne. He quickly changes the subject. “So what brings you this far north? Most of the outbound ships are leaving soon to get ahead of the storm. Essos seems to be a better place to be for most people around here.” He looks up briefly as another group of patrons wanders in, their heads and shoulders brushed white with snow. The redhead girl from before however jumps in to seat them before he can greet them, and he settles back into his seat. 

Olyvar raises an eyebrow. “Is this abnormal? The crowds?”

The man snorts. “Aye. Most people had returned home after what happened up north but now they’re running again. I’ve heard all sorts of stories. Don’t believe most of them myself but I suppose there’s a glimmer of truth even in the most bald-faced lie.” He gestures towards the flagon of wine still sitting on the table and Olyvar shakes his head--he will never be drunk enough to admit that it’s a good enough vintage to drink. “So you? You’re headed to Braavos or Pentos on one of those ships?”

 _I could lie_ , Olyvar muses but then shrugs, figuring that he has never been good at face-to-face obfuscation. “No. I’m headed north still. Winterfell.”

The change in the owner’s disposition is immediate. His face immediately shutters after a spasm of something too mercurial and intense to decipher mangles his expression and he pushes back from the table with a grunt. “And what would you want to do a fool thing like that for? Just told you people are coming down from there. And there’s a storm coming. Someone like you wouldn’t survive a ride up the Knife, not in this weather. Everyone coming down says the storms are bad and they’re liable to get worse. Won’t no man in his right man ride that way.”

Olyvar watches the man suddenly make himself busy, tutting beneath his breath as he moves away from the table to greet and chat with the patrons in the small tavern. And then he looks about the tavern itself, seeing that while quite a few of the patrons are sailors and merchants, more than half are northerners, many of whom keep glancing nervously out the grimy windows towards the docks, as if terrified all the ships are going to vanish. Glancing about the floor, he sees by their feet satchels and bags--clearly not their entire worldly possessions but enough for them to travel quickly and lightly to wherever their final destination is.

He frowns.

“He’s just a bit worn down, ser,” the redhead girl says as she passes his chair, catching the direction of his frown. Snowflakes are melting in her curls--clearly, she has just been outside again, luring people susceptible to a pretty face and large tits inside. She leans down to pick up his empty plate and says in a hushed voice, “He thinks he’s being brave but I bet all these stories have got him spooked. I think it was them dragons. Everyone’s talking about them. Makes some people think if dragons can be real, then the rest can be too.”

Olyvar laces his fingers and taps two fingers to his mouth, thoughtful. Right. Stories. He has collected stories and tales and legends, from his own Dorne to the wilds of Essos. Musingly, he says, “People believe in a lot of things. It It doesn’t mean they’re true.”

“Aye but have you seen the dragons?” the girl whispers, blue eyes wide. She sits down in the chair recently vacated by the tavern owner, dishes forgotten, and leans across the tables, her cleavage threatening to spill out onto the table like the wasted flagon of wine. “The Targaryens and the Starks are allies now. I’ve heard that the dragons were _at_ Winterfell during the battle there. They were here too, weeks ago. Sailing to Dragonstone, I heard. But I was still at Oldcastle then. I would love to see a dragon.”

There is a glimmer of awe in the girl’s eyes that causes Olyvar to chuckle. “So if the Targaryens and the Starks are allies, why is everyone running south? Do they want to see the dragons as much as you?”

The girl hesitates, sitting back a little in her chair. She chews her bottom lip for a moment before shaking her head. “No. No, like Wendel said...there’ve been stories..."

“As it just so happens,” Olyvar interrupts with a grin he has been told makes him a scoundrel, “I happen to love stories. And redheads.”

The girl blinks at him.

It is only much later the next morning, when the storms have finally hit and the girl (“Jeyna,” she had gasped out as she clung to and writhed beneath him) is drowsing in the bed behind him, that Olyvar glances down at the quiet docks from a bedroom over the tavern. Many of the ships have long since departed, the _Wayward Wind_ one of them. The storm has swallowed up most of the docks and the wharf and the distant horizon has made distinguishable the line that separates sea and sky. In the light of dawn, everything has become a gray haze.

He rubs his hand through his dark curls, contemplating the choices he has now. He can wait out the storm, of course. It is probably advisable that he does--his previous encounters with northern storms had been few and far between and many years ago. While he doesn’t doubt his own ability to camp through some extreme weather, the stories that Jeyna told him that had come filtering down from the north makes him pause. Truly, there may be some tall tales mixed among the stories of travelers escaping to the south but Olyvar has traveled too long and has come across too many people across too many backgrounds to not take their fears to heart.

There have apparently been no travelers that have arrived in White Harbor that are from any farther north than the Barrowlands--the farthest anyone had traveled had been from Torrhen’s Square. But from Winterfell, Cerwyn, Deepwood Motte, Last Hearth, Karhold? Nothing. He rubs at his scruff as he recalls Jeyna’s words from earlier--the Umbers and Karstarks had been dealt grievous blows with the deaths of their heirs during the battle at Winterfell, the one where the dead and the riders of night and winter fell upon the stronghold of the Starks and the North. It does not take a strategist to figure out that with the North’s forces down in King’s Landing with Queen Daenerys, the North itself is a defenseless wasteland of silence.

“My friend tells me that Lord Manderly has been sending ravens to Winterfell but hasn’t heard anything in weeks,” Jeyna had murmured against his chest, tracing her fingers across his ribs. “I bet people are just nervous because of the eastern savages. Telling stories about the Iron Islands and demons and things that come in the night. People are probably afraid of the dragons. But I’ve never been afraid of dragons.”

"Dragons, no. But you spoke of demons."

"Mmhmm," Jeyne had lifted herself up on her elbows then to peer at Olyvar, her red curls tumbling over her freckled shoulders. "Demons and krakens and blue-eyed shadowcats--the people are saying all sorts of things are hunting in the North."

Olyvar had grinned. "Krakens?"

"Oh, yes!" Her own smile had widened as she had placed a kiss against his chest, her hand roaming down the sheets to find him hard. "Some people have said a great kraken rose up from the sea and demanded the iron price from the Ironborn."

"And the only person to escape were the people who came bearing the stories?"

"My mama told me stories of the Deep Ones when I was little." Her voice was pitched lower then as she had followed her hand's trail with her mouth. "Great monsters that would rise with night and swallow all of Westeros. But it was just a tale you tell children. Nothing truly to be afraid of."

And then she had taken him into her mouth and the conversation had ended there.

 _Dragons. Demons_. Olyvar thinks, leaning against the windowsill. There is no doubt the smallfolk are fleeing from something but with most of them already gone south and the rest of the North a strange bastion of complete silence, it is difficult to surmise what from. If the tales he has heard are true, if the monsters of night and winter and death truly did wage war on Winterfell, then the dragon queen’s flight south and conquest over King’s Landing must have meant that those threats are gone.

But then why were the northerners fleeing?

 _Well, I suppose I’ll see it for myself firsthand_. He straightens then, crossing his arms. Sarella will, of course, be furious--Olyvar certainly never thought twice about throwing himself headlong into the unknown and into danger when his name was merely an afterthought to his existence. Now that he wears the title of Prince of Dorne, he certainly should not be rushing straight into winter storms and the whispered mysteries that are stalking the North.

Olyvar crosses the room and begins shrugging on his clothing, pulling a few additional items out of his pack for the ride north--gloves, a heavy rough-spun cloak, a long woolen scarf. In the back of his mind, he can almost hear his niece berating him for the fool’s trek towards Winterfell. He almost smiles.

“Olyvar?” He glances towards the bed where Jeyna is slowly waking up. She blinks owlishly at him before sitting up slowly, clutching blankets to her chest for warmth more than to protect her modesty. “Where are you going?”

“North,” he replies as he secures his swordbelt and throws on his cloak. “Your stories didn’t change my mind.”

“I thought you’d stay,” comes the morose response. “The storm is only going to get worse before it gets better. Even we northerners wouldn’t risk a journey in this weather.”

Olyvar smiles. “Some things are worth risking the journey for.”

“What could possibly be in Winterfell that is worth it? The queen is in King’s Landing. The Warden of the North is with her. There’s nothing in Winterfell except women, old men, and babes.” Jeyna looks perplexed, not disappointed. “If you are looking for adventure, you are going in the wrong direction. Why would a--” 

She trails off and Olyvar does laugh this time. He leans over the bed and kisses her on top of her head, her curls a riot of tangles.

“I am not a story you can add to your collection, dearest,” he says. “At least not today.”

Jeyna flushes and opens her mouth to protest but Olyvar only brushes his fingers over her lips before turning on his heel and leaving the room. 

Downstairs, there are only two other patrons sitting about the tavern, huddled close to the hearth and drinking from steaming canteens. The owner is standing nearby, speaking with them in hushed tones. When he spots Olyvar, his eyes narrow but there is nothing angry in the look. He hustles over to him, eyes briefly darting over his shoulder towards the stairs. “This isn’t a whorehouse.”

“Which is why I’m not paying you for her services,” Olyvar replies amiably as he reaches out and hands the man a handful of coins. “Though some food for a journey would be appreciated. And directions to a reputable stable.”

The man squints at the gold in his hands. “A journey? In this weather?”

“I’m a foolhardy wanderer.”

One of the patrons by the fire, clearly having been eavesdropping, snorts and the owner shoots him a quelling glare, so that the man turns the snort into a cough. Muttering under his breath, the owner quickly disappears into a backroom before emerging several moments later with a pack only slightly smaller than Olyvar’s own. He then tells him where to find someone who might-- _might_ \--lend him an old garron. “I doubt you’ll find someone willing to give you a horse that’ll make it through this weather. Bad investment.”

“Probably not,” Olyvar agrees with a nod, swiping an apple from one of the bowls on a table. And then he ties the smaller pack to his own, nods once more at the owners, and ventures out into the snow-blanketed streets of the wharf. He can still hear the wailing of the gulls as they dive between the docked ships still in harbor, though at least the smell from the previous day has been muted underneath several inches of snow. It is still early enough in the morning that all except the fishmongers and merchants further down the wharf are still abed.

It does not take too long to find the stables the tavern owner had referred to him. It also does not take too long for the owner’s predictions to turn out to be very true.

“In this weather?” the stablehand grouses, looking as if he should still be rubbing sleep from his eyes. He tosses the bale of hay that he had been carrying in his arms in front of one of the stalls before turning a glower at Olyvar. “You never seen a snowstorm, boy? No one goes riding in this for fun.”

“Congratulations--you’ve just met someone.” Olyvar feels like Doran’s letter is branding his chest from where it sits tucked in his tunic. He hands the man a small sack that jingles with coins. “I’m not looking for a destrier, just something that won’t die on me on my way to Winterfell. I know you’ve more than enough horses---all of those people fleeing from north of here wouldn’t take their noble steeds with them.”

The stablehand scowls, though the expression abates somewhat when he peers into the small pouch. He looks suspiciously up at Olyvar. “This is a lot of money just for you to ride north for fun.”

“I am disappointing my father by squandering my inheritance on trivial things.”

“I thought you said you was a knight?”

“With that much money, does it really matter what I am?”

The other man seems to consider this and then finally shrugs. It takes a few more minutes of haggling and threats but eventually the stablehand returns with a steady-looking brown garron, saddled with appropriate riding gear. He watches as Olyvar secures his pack to the saddle, his sleepiness long since evaporated into suspicion. He takes one look out at the snowy roads and the colorless sky and then frowns back at Olyvar. “You don’t know what you’re doing, boy.”

“Probably not,” Olyvar agrees, swinging himself up onto the saddle. “But I appreciate your opinion nonetheless.”

The man snorts. “Watch out for the wolves.”

 _Wolves_. Olyvar sighs. Wolves are the least of his worries. He remembers Jeyne’s warm embrace and her stories the peppered her words around kisses and gasps and moans. Tales of the Iron Islands and krakens rising from the sea with a vengeance. Blue-eyed monsters chasing people into the night. Demonic creatures of ice and snow stalking people through the snowstorm, ghosts and illusions and stories and nightmares. Terrible screams and howling and shrieks echoing through the knight.

And here he is, a lone man on a sleepy-eyed horse, wading into the midst of a tale.

Oh, Sarella is going to feed him his own balls.

With a shake of his head and a quiet laugh to himself, Olyvar steers the horse northward. Before long, he has vanished into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I didn't realize that I only saved this as a draft.
> 
> Next chapter: The Dancer. Back to Winterfell for a long-anticipated confrontation.


	27. The Dancer

The statue of Ned Stark stares solemnly at his oldest daughter from beneath a veil of cobwebs and a thin layer of dust.

It has taken Sansa weeks to venture into the crypts after the battle, the most horrifying of her nightmares still haunted by the terror-soaked images of her long-dead ancestors crawling from their tombs, the guttural sounds rising from their undead throats as they tore apart women and children and old men alike at the Night King’s bequest. Sometimes, in the dark of night, when the winter storms howl and the fire in her hearth has been reduced to mere glowing embers, she can still hear them, growling across the floor, decaying fingers pulling their rotten torsos up onto her bed, empty sockets filled with a pinprick of starlit blue as they descend on her, gaping maws ripping at her flesh, splattered with hot blood, as she screams and screams and screams…

Sansa closes her eyes and takes a breath.

Now though, the only thing she can hear is the soft and comforting crackle of the torches she herself had lit, the faint distant dripping of water in the cavernous subterranean space. It is cold in the darkness and she has never been more aware of her solitude than she has standing in this space alone but it is calming next to the chaotic bustle above her head.

She frowns at her father’s statue. She doesn’t know if Ned Stark himself had risen from the dead, sometimes wonders if the Night King could have reanimated bleached bones--all that was truly left of the Stark patriarch. Jon had burned Rickon immediately after the Stark banner flew high over Winterfell again after the Boltons' defeat so her youngest brother’s corpse never would have risen from the dead. But her father remains a mystery to her.

 _And Mother and Robb can at least rest_ , Sansa thinks as she glances at Robb’s half-completed statue, a spasm of pain flickering across her heart. Just like Eddard Stark, she doesn’t think the statue resembles the boy she remembers at all--there is a solemness to his face that Sansa never remembered being there. He looks too old, too worn. Arya had told her what the thrice-damned Freys had done with Robb’s body after the Red Wedding (and that is another nightmare--if the Night King had continued his rampage south, would Robb have awakened as a desecrated corpse, with a man’s ruined body and a direwolf’s rotting skull?). No, wherever Catelyn and Robb Stark’s bodies now lay, they are far, far, far from Winterfell.

She bows her head. Somewhere above, they need her--to comfort them, to make decisions, to lead them through (another) winter. She sighs and looks up at Robb’s face. This is the son who should still be the Lord of Winterfell, the son who should be the Warden of the North.

But there is one more to their family too, Sansa admits to herself as she gazes at the half-finished statue of her brother and the mass of stone at his feet that would one day take the form of Grey Wind. It is someone that Sansa rarely thought about, a ghost never met, a memory never made, and one of the many reasons why Robb died--his wife, Talisa. Sansa had only heard the woman’s name as a sneer on Joffrey’s tongue and spoken of with mild disapproving amusement by Littlefinger. Of her looks and her personality, Sansa knew nothing and gods only knew what the Freys did with Talisa’s corpse, the foreign woman who had stolen away the king and the crown and the future of the North.

Sansa is not blind to the fact that history seems to be repeating itself.

_Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before._

She thinks back to the letter they received from Winterfell. Without Bran’s Sight, it was only...what is it that Lord Howland said...a warning by provocation. Cersei is dead. Varys is dead. King’s Landing burns while Daenerys Targaryen sits on the throne, looking to execute justice on Tyrion and...Jon? Arya? The one thing that burns in the back of her mind is the question regarding the message’s author--who would have sent it? A loyal northerner? Qyburn? One of Varys’s little birds, still alive in the shadows of the Red Keep?

Between the mystery of what has happened in King’s Landing, the even more terrifying mystery of what is lurking out in the winter storm, and the ominous silence from anyone else even after sending raven after raven after even, Sansa feels some suspenseful dread climbing into her throat every time she is confronted with enormity of it. The Wall has fallen. The capital burns. 

And the wolves had howled.

Sansa’s belief in powers greater than herself wanes and waxes as often as the moon but she knows--she _knows_ \--there is something powerful at work here. Her lady mother raised her to worship the Seven but it has been the old gods of the wild that Ned Stark believed in that truly held any power in the North. And that is to say nothing about the Red God, who had kissed steel with flames and who had breathed life back into Jon’s body, or the God of Death who follows Arya like a shadow and has turned her sister into a stranger. The Seven had crumbled when Cersei had brought down the Great Sept in a green rage. The Drowned God had not risen from the sea to protect Theon.

 _But_ , Sansa thinks, looking up at the stone faces of her father and her brother, _the old gods did not protect us either_. She watches as golden shadows dance across her father’s face and she lets her gaze wander further down to where even more statues stand silent. The old gods had not protected her uncle or her grandfather from the paranoia and wiles of a mad king. And they had not protected a young girl madly in love with a dragon prince…

Sansa examines Lyanna’s face. Time has softened the edges of the stone and pockmarked it in several places. If the statues of her father and her brother look nothing like themselves, she is sure that this effigy to Lyanna Stark bears literal resemblance to the actual young woman who died years and years ago. She still doesn’t know what to think of her aunt, this girl who had thrown everything to the wind to be with a man she loved, leaving chaos and the ruins of the Seven Kingdoms in her wake.

 _A trait that runs in the family_. Sansa’s eyes shift back to Robb as her thoughts drift to Jon. Lyanna had defied everyone by falling in love with Rhaegar and launching a war because of it. Robb had defied his vows by falling in love with Talisa and lost the war and his life because of it. And now Jon...

_You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb._

Sansa has calculated the outcomes of this war, has played her hand to protect her family, to protect the North. And yet it feels as if it isn’t enough, that she is playing at a game half-blind and with someone who doesn’t care to follow the rules. And as the cold winds continue to batter the walls of the Winterfell, as some dark beasts howl in the night, and as the capital burns with dragonfire, Sansa cannot help but wonder how heartless and cold she is going to have to be in order to ensure the survival of her family, of her House, and of her home.

_How can I promise to keep a secret if I don’t even know what it is?_

There is a cold pinprick of uncertainty in her heart.

Further down the hall, Sansa hears the sound of the ironwood gate swinging open. The resulting gust of cold winter winds causes the torches surrounding her to flicker wildly in their sconces but not a single one of them goes out. Sansa turns towards the entrance of the crypts as she hears a slightly labored walk and muttered cursing about the darkness and the uneven steps leading down into the crypt. A small smile ghosts across her face.

A moment later, Tormund Giantsbane walks into the warm golden glow of the torches. Over the past several days, some color has returned to his face, though it is accompanied by a thunderous cough and a rattle in his chest that Maester Wolkan has grimaced about. Whatever poison still lurks in the wildling’s system is still making its presence felt. Tormund has never been a small man but even Sansa can see the affect his illness has had on him--his pace is slower and his lips are pressed together in a colorless line, as if he is holding back an eruption of coughing from sheer will.

“The tall woman said you would be down here,” he says by way of greeting. Sansa has long since stopped expecting him to grace anyone with proper titles. She nods and Tormund continues, looking around him with a mild look of distaste on his face. “Wouldn’t think you’d want to be down here after what happened. Surrounded by dead people."

“My family is down here,” Sansa replies simply. Tormund frowns and squints at the statues she is standing in front of.

“These your people?” At Sansa’s single nod, he takes a few steps closer to get a closer look. “Never understood why you kneelers kept corpses just lying around like a collection of toys. We burn our people in the north.”

 _A tradition we may take up here_ , Sansa thinks to herself. Even those who had succumbed to their wounds from the battle against the Night King days and weeks after the battle had ended had been burned instead of buried, the memory of living corpses still too fresh in anyone’s mind to rest easy at a mere burial. The smell of burning flesh will linger at Winterfell for what Sansa feels will be years. Aloud, she only says, “A wise choice, considering what we faced.”

Tormund grunts. “Faced. Face. Seems like we’ll never outrun it. That’s why I was looking for you. You know we can’t stay here, right?”

The wildlings have also never been ones to practice small talk before jumping into their point. It is something else Sansa has gotten used to and her expression does not change. “Winterfell is as safe a place as any.”

“And once whatever’s hunting us comes out of the night? Your army is in the south. Nothing here except women and babes. We’ve bought some fighters with us but not enough to stand against another horde.”

“The alternative is to march everyone down the kingsroad and follow the Knife to White Harbor,” Sansa replies calmly. It had been the first thing she had thought of when the story about what had happened to the wildlings and the black brothers had unfolded. And it was the first thing she rejected as she examined their numbers and the ceaseless winter storm and whatever was lurking out in the shadows and snow. “It would take us days to reach White Harbor and we’d be defenseless the entire time. You said yourself that what attacked us isn’t like before but we can’t be sure it will stay that way. No, Winterfell’s walls are our safest protection right now.”

She watches as the giant man grinds his teeth--he doesn’t like her answer, she knows. But none of their ravens have been answered and the snows only continue to fall. She has posted extra sentries in the watchtowers along Winterfell’s perimeter and sped up reinforcement work of the weaker points of defense along the walls. Their stores are still plentiful after the battle against the Night King--Daenerys’s near-immediate march south for her crown made sure of that. 

_But plentiful is not unending_. Sansa knows what a precarious situation they are in, knows that without an answer to their call, that they are going to be in trouble. If the ravens stay lost and their calls for help unanswered, the only glimmer of hope is that whatever is lurking in the storm edges around Winterfell itself or has stayed north of the Gift. If the darkness rises...if the cold winds blow strong again…

“This your brother?” Tormund interrupts her thoughts, gesturing towards a statue of Brandon Stark. Sansa’s smile is brief and she knows it doesn’t reach her eyes as she shakes her head.

“My uncle,” she replies before waving at Robb’s half-finished statue. “This is my brother. My people declared him King in the North after the Lannisters killed my father.”

Tormund snorts, unimpressed. “And you still listen to the dwarf? You people love having to kneel to someone. Never knew why the titles were so important. Make your own rules, I say. Why listen to someone who wears a piece of metal on their head? That don’t make them any more important than the next bastard.” Before Sansa can argue, Tormund plunges on with a sharp gesture at Brandon and Robb’s statues. “So someone didn’t like that they called themselves kings? All of this fucking fighting over a title and an iron chair. Ridiculous.”

“I don’t think there’s any point in arguing for our way of life,” Sansa says coolly. “You will never understand it, the way I will never understand yours. We should agree to disagree.”

That causes Tormund to laugh and even though it is only a fraction of his usual booming roar, it still fills the crypts. “Ha! No wonder the little crow speaks so highly of you. You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you? Well, can’t say I’d blame you. The freefolk came here for a reason.”

 _Once he spoke highly of me_ , Sansa thinks as she gives Tormund a brief smile. But that was before any of this, before he brought her, before…

“How’d he die?” 

“Pardon?”

“Your uncle.” Tormund crosses his arms and peers suspiciously at the statue of Brandon Stark, as if expecting the man’s decades-old corpse to spill from his tomb--not a distinctly remote possibility, all things considering. “No crown on his head. And it doesn’t get cold enough here in the south for him to freeze to death.”

Sansa is silent for a moment. The diplomatic response would be that he died defending his sister’s honor. Tormund would scoff at their idea of honor and then he would leave. It would be easier, less painful, to leave it at that, and she almost explains it, to the end the conversation, to go back to her vigil. But instead she says, “He and my grandfather were killed by Daenerys’s father.” 

As she says it, she realizes, perhaps far too belatedly for her comfort, that there is more to it than that. Aerys was Daenerys’s father, true...but he was also Jon’s grandfather. In her shock and her suspicion, she had forgotten the most basic of the family ties that have wound Jon in their clutches.

Unease settles on her like a cloak as Tormund’s eyebrows attempt to shoot up into his hairline. “Aye?” He seems to be digesting that for a moment before he finally says, “You crazy fuckers.”

Sansa cannot bring herself to disagree.

“You don’t like--” Tormund begins to say but he is cut off as they both hear the sound of the ironwood gate creaking open again. Sansa can guess what he is about to accuse her of--for all of her diplomacy and coldness and outward politeness, she doubts it is any secret that her embrace of Daenerys Targaryen has been less than warm. She doesn’t mind that people know that--the more people who realize that the North will not meekly bow in subservience to the dragon queen, the better. She knows that it will most likely put Jon in a difficult position but she has already made her move in that regard.

_The capital burns with fire and blood...the Dragon sits on the throne..._

Footsteps approach and the darkness reveals the tall form of Brienne...and Sansa immediately notices the look of unease on her face. Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword but her fingers are tightly wound around the grip. There is an urgency straining around the edge of her eyes. “Ser Brienne?”

“My lady, you must come.” Even her voice is strained. “There is a dragon.”

A dragon.

No.

Sansa barely notices Tormund’s response to Brienne (though she sees Brienne’s face flicker in a riot of emotions to whatever he has said) as she gathers up her skirts and hurries out of the crypts. She can hear the strides of her guardian behind her and the slower pace of the wildling but her mind is already racing to whatever is taking place above her head.

A dragon, a dragon. She pushes the ironwood door to the old courtyard open, the entire expanse quiet and dim in the late morning light. When the storms momentarily let up, the fogs came rolling in from the north, reducing visibility to an uncomfortably small distance. Even when the snows were not falling, the wolfswood is only a dim shadow in the distance and the higher towers of Winterfell seem to be touching the clouds themselves. It is a cold mist that has settled into more than one person’s lungs but this time it doesn’t cool the heat on Sansa’s cheeks.

It has been weeks and weeks since Jon and Daenerys marched south. The words of the letter burn in her mind. Sansa has told those in the watchtowers to keep as sharp an eye out as possible for any sign of trouble but the weather has become less and less cooperative as the days have passed--they never would have seen a dragon until it was practically on top of Winterfell. 

A dragon. _Drogon_. The hulking monstrosity that Daenerys rode, Balerion the Black Dread reborn. She remembers the flames that roared from the beast’s maw during the battle against the Night King. Would those fires now be turned onto Winterfell itself?

_The Hand and the Wolf will reap the rewards of treason._

Sansa had thought the letter spoke of Jon or Arya. But what if...what if...

It had been a gamble. But what if that gamble comes at the price of everyone living in Winterfell? Sansa stops abruptly, feeling something like the very breath of the Night King itself ghost down her spine (and the wolves howl and howl and _howl_ ), and the footsteps behind her fall silent as Brienne and Tormund also pause, until the only sound Sansa feels is thundering through the halls is her own heartbeat.

And then...she hears it. 

A dragon cry.

Her jaw clenches and her eyes narrow. No. No, if this is her doing then so be it. She has sworn that she will protect the North, protect her home. It is her choice, her duty as a Stark and as a Tully, to make sure no further harm comes to those who came to Winterfell for protection. She must do what Father and Robb and even Jon failed at and if that means...if that means…

For a brief moment, she thinks she feels eyes on her from overhead. She glances upwards towards the walkways with a frown. There is nothing there--a brief flash of bright eyes and hair the color of a honeyed sunset...no. No, nothing. There is no one.

Strange.

She crosses the courtyards in record time and approaches the main gate of Winterfell. There are already men scurrying about and shouting with one another and for a moment, none of them take any notice of her approach until one man in particular catches sight of Sansa’s hair, trailing behind her in her quickened pace like a spray of blood. He nods his head respectfully but she can see the confusion and alarm in his eyes. “Lady Sansa. There is…”

“I know,” she says quietly. “Open the gates.”

Some of the men exchange looks and some of them begin to protest but Sansa suddenly feels warmth at her side--she does not have to turn to see Brienne--and the protests fall away into silence. The gates swing open, bringing with them a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow that spirals away into the fog and mists. It is almost beautiful if the sight beyond the gates wasn’t so colorless and foreboding.

Sansa takes a breath and steps out from beyond the walls of Winterfell.

In the distance, obscured by the low rolling mists and the heavy fog cover, Sansa can see a mammoth shape in the pale gray shadows, belching sparks and smoke and shaking snow from its wings. And she sees a dark figure dismount from the dragon, landing with ease in the snow and pausing for only a moment before beginning to walk towards Winterfell. It only takes her a few seconds to recognize the familiar gait in the fog, the cold mists swirling around him like a lover.

Jon.

She expects relief to flood through her upon seeing his familiar form, his serious but kind face, but...no, there is nothing except suspicion.

It is her own fault, she knows. But a thousand thoughts fly through her mind. Why is he here? Where is Daenerys? What happened in King’s Landing? And even as her brother--her _cousin_ \--approaches, Sansa knows that Jon does not, cannot possibly know everything that has happened since his trek south on his queen’s war campaign. The fall of the Wall, the retreat of the wildlings, Bran’s lost Sight...none of it. And just as blind as Jon is about everything that has happened here, because of Bran’s darkened vision, she is just as lost as to what has truly happened since before the siege began except for Bran’s half-confirmed (and even then, reluctantly so) murmurs about dragonfire and death.

All of Cersei and Littlefinger and Ramsay’s lessons come roaring into her mind. She has been less than honest with Jon since they’ve reunited. But it has kept them safe. She needs to continue playing the game, even with him, because she fears that if she ever implicitly trusts him, it will be the death of all of them.

Jon pauses a handful of steps away from Sansa. There is something peculiar about his appearance--the last time she saw him with his hair unbound...was it eight, nine years ago? Back before everything had gone so horribly, horribly wrong? It makes him look so much younger, like the quiet and somber boy she used to know...except for that strange light in his eyes. There is a darkness, a wariness in his eyes, in his expression, that causes Sansa to pause. Longclaw is not at his hip and he wears no cloak, despite the fact that it is bitterly cold and can only be worse in the skies. 

It is silent except for the winds.

It is Jon who breaks it. “Bran’s told you why I’m here.”

Every time they had reunited before, Jon had wrapped her in a hug so tight she could barely breathe, planting an affectionate kiss into her hair. She never admitted to him how safe those hugs had made her feel--more than any of the others, hugging Jon had always felt like coming home. 

He does not step forward to hug her now.

It hurts and she weighs her words carefully. Though the south is a mystery, she still holds more knowledge than Jon and secrets are power. The wildlings are here. The Wall has fallen. Bran’s Sight is gone. There is darkness lurking just north of Winterfell. These are important facts and Jon does not know them. She has to use this to her advantage. She hates that it’s necessary.

Instead of confirming Jon’s statement, she instead responds with a question, “Why are you here, Jon?”

The silence falls again. 

Sansa believes that she knows her brother--her cousin--well enough to judge his decisions and his movements in the game of thrones. Jon is a good man, a just man, even if he has become rash since he was brought back from the dead. But the way he is waiting out this silence, playing the same game as her, as if weighing and judging her own lack of words and her expression...it’s unnerving. Finally, something in her expression must give him pause because he says, nothing in the tone of his voice or his expression giving away his emotions, “We need to talk.”

An understatement.

Sansa studies him for a moment longer--even underneath her cloak and furs and woolen dress, the stinging cold is enough to take her breath away. Jon is not even shivering.

_Fire and blood._

She chases the thought away with a sharp nod of her head and turns to head back into the walls of Winterfell--battered and broken but still standing. Jon falls in step with her but for once, his presence is not a comforting one. Brienne hesitates for a mere moment before she says quietly, “And the dragon?”

Both Sansa and Jon stop walking. Jon glances over his shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”

Brienne meets Sansa’s eyes, hesitating but saying nothing more. Sansa knows that she wasn’t discussing the well-being of the dragon--they are not Targaryens. Dragons will never be in their blood. But a beast of that power and size, just lurking beyond Winterfell’s walls without its mother or true rider anywhere to be seen… “You trust that your queen’s dragon will simply stay put?”

“Yes.”

Something about the simple answer angers her. There is a callousness to it, a shrugged nonchalance that bothers her. She cannot bite her tongue here and her words are sharper than she intends. 

“I didn’t know he listens to you now.”

She spins away and continues walking back into Winterfell, trying to quell the anger and frustration building within her chest...but she soon realizes that Jon is not walking with her. She stops and turns back, finding him standing just behind her, his brow furrowed in confusion. The winds start to blow a little stronger, a little stronger, surrounding them both in biting spirals of snow and ice. “What?”

“Bran...didn’t tell you?”

Sansa goes back over her words in her head, trying to pinpoint what she had said that caused Jon to ask that question. Finding nothing, she only shakes her head, bewildered and frustrated. “Told me what?”

“That’s not Drogon.”

That’s not...what?

This brings Sansa up short. Of course it’s Drogon. It must be. Before Bran lost his Sight, he had told them--had told _her_ \--about the attack from the Ironborn fleet, that they had shot one of the dragons, the green one, the one that bore the name of Jon’s true father, out of the sky. Bran wouldn’t have lied. Had the dragon merely been injured? No, he had said it was killed. Maybe he was wrong--maybe he had mistakenly thought it was Rhaegal instead of Drogon. But Daenerys rode Drogon--if that had been the dragon to fall out of the sky, surely Daenerys would have been killed in the fall too and they would have so much less to worry about now.

“A mistake,” Sansa ventures cautiously. An easy answer. A vague answer. “I did not recognize him in the fog”

But Jon is still frowning at her...and his expression abruptly and painfully shifts into surprised confusion and he is staring past her, his lips parting in a sharp intake of breath. Sansa hears the slow gait of the wildling in the crunch of snow behind her, cursing inwardly that she had not told him to stay put even before the man speaks. 

“Ah, little crow. You missed us. I knew you’d not stay away from the North for too long.”

“Tormund…?" Jon turns back to Sansa, eyes narrowed and searching, even though his question is directed at the red-haired man. “Why are the wildlings here? You were supposed to take them beyond the Wall.”

“Aye, that was the plan.” Tormund’s words are sighed in notes of bitterness and exhaustion. “But the Wall had different ideas. The whole bloody thing came crashing down on our heads.”

Sansa closes her eyes.

“What?” Jon is looking from Sansa to Tormund to Brienne and back again, consternation and confusion rolling across his face. “The Wall came...how? _When_? Why didn’t you send a raven?”

 _Because I didn’t know_ , Sansa thinks. _Because I didn’t trust your queen. Because I don’t trust you when it comes to her._

She tries to walk off again, hoping that Jon will simply follow her instead of asking more questions while standing here outside of the protective walls of Winterfell, questions she can’t answer, questions she _won’t_ answer. But Jon stops her, reaching out and wrapping his hand around her upper arm in a bruising grip, bringing her to an abrupt halt. She spins back to face him, a rebuke at the tip of her tongue, but it dies the moment she sees the look on his face.

She may never have seen it before, may have never _wanted_ to see it, but there is something in Jon’s dark eyes, something alien and terrifying and burning. Like fire. Like a stranger.

Like a Targaryen.

_I need to tell you something._

_What if there's someone else? Someone better?_

She finds her words again somehow, struggling to move her arm out of Jon’s painful vice-like grip. “Jon. Let me go--you’re hurting me.”

There is a long tense moment.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa can see Brienne’s hand reach for her sword. Behind her, she hears Tormund shift, a low growl in his chest.

And then Jon’s face softens into a surprised grimace and he releases her, taking a step away from her. He shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, a troubled light in his eyes. He does not quite apologize but he does gesture for Sansa to continue. She doesn’t say anything either--her arm throbs painfully--but there is a voice in her head, murmuring at her, moving the pieces about, recalculating, judging…

The voice sounds like Petyr Baelish.

When they arrive at a small side room to the Great Hall, Brienne gives Sansa a questioning look as she and Jon enter the room. Her face must initially betray her because the lady knight begins to follow her into the room but Sansa puts up a hand to stop her. 

“Please. I would speak with my...brother alone.” She pauses. “It’s fine, Brienne.”

Brienne hesitates for a moment longer but then squares her shoulders and nods sharply before walking off. Sansa watches her go and knows that she won’t be far. As she closes the door, there is a part of her that questions her decision and another part of her that is worried that she has to question it at all. This isn’t the time for self-doubt or anything else--there is a game about to be played and she must be cautious in what she tells Jon.

She turns to him then and finds him pensively leaning over the far end of the table that once held maps and pieces of strategy, of plans against the Night King, of plans against Cersei. The people have gone--too many of them dead and burned--and yet, despite all of it, despite the machinations and the mistakes, they are still here. And that does not calm her as it should have--instead, it feels as if she is about to wade into battle, into a dance where she is no longer sure if her partner knows the steps, dizzying and intricate and strange. She takes a few steps closer to the table but no more.

And waits.

Without looking up at her, Jon says quietly, “When did the Wall fall?”

“A few weeks ago.” An easy answer.

“A few..." Jon’s brow knits together. “When _exactly_ , Sansa?”

Sansa shakes her head. “The only thing I’ve been concerned with is the fact that it fell in the first place. Why does it matter when it happened?”

“Why does it…?” Jon’s gaze snaps up then to give her an incredulous look. “Didn’t Bran tell you _anything_ about what happened in the capital?”

 _No, because he couldn’t_. Sansa clenches her jaw around a sigh of frustration. She can risk the little she knows, play on a guess, and judge how to move from there based on Jon’s reaction. She needs to know more before she is willing to give up her own secrets. Jon will want to speak with Bran at some point--there is no avoiding that--so best to clear an easier path as much as possible here and now.

So she says, “We know what happened in the capital. We know that Cersei and Varys are dead. We know that your queen sits on the throne and that she burned the city to do it."

And she sees his shoulders stiffen at her words. _There_. Gods.

The confirmation of it tastes like ash.

"How many people died, Jon? How many innocent people died in order for your queen to wear a crown?” She steps up to the other end of the table, fixing her cousin on the other side with a cool gaze and trying to keep the heat out of her voice as she quietly continues, “I told you, Jon. We warned you about her. Was your faith in her worth it?”

There are many answers she expects from him. He has used such poor defenses when it came to Daenerys--a mere rebuke of “she’s my queen” to any accusations or concerns Sansa and Arya have raised about her, a deflection and a blindness that could-- _has_ \--cost them so much, if the message and Bran’s half-visions are true. And Jon has turned away from all of it, refuses to see past his vows, past his love, as if mere belief in a fanciful goodness in the Targaryen queen’s heart will breathe it into existence. 

But the look that crosses Jon’s face is anything but defensive or abashed.

“You warned me?” he echoes, a thin thread of hurt disbelief woven through his tone. But it is nearly smothered by something else entirely, an emotion that Sansa cannot--does not--want to identify. “No, you didn’t _trust_ me. You made a decision on your own, thinking it was better without knowing anything, without trying to understand.”

“I’ve known people like her, Jon,” Sansa retorts angrily, narrowing her eyes at him. How can he not see? How can he still defend this? “They will walk over everyone and everything to get power. I saw it in Joffrey. I saw it in Cersei. In Littlefinger. In Ramsay. And I saw it in your queen. All I asked is that you trust and put faith in my judgment but you ignored me. Thought you knew better even though you couldn’t possibly see clearly with her--”

 _Thud_.

Jon’s fist slams into the table with such force that Sansa's words die on her lips with a wince. He seems to be shaking from the mere exertion of holding himself together and she can only stare at him, silent and appalled and furious.

“I _did_ trust you, Sansa. And you betrayed that trust.”

“Because I knew--”

“You conspired behind my back,” he interrupts her. Even though the lines of his body speak of barely-confined rage and frustration, his voice is low enough that she has to strain to hear them and it feels as if they are separated by more than a wooden table. Before (and there is now a before because of course, of course) he would have sounded contrite. But now...now... “When I asked for your word, to keep this a secret, you swore--”

“No more than you swore to the queen.” When he looks up to meet her eyes, Sansa can see the black fury there. But she refuses to be cowed. “Or do I have it wrong? Was she happy to learn that her brother had another son, a legitimate heir? Did she encourage you to tell us so that we would all come to an understanding? Or did she swear you to secrecy? Did she want to make sure no one would ever question her... _rightful_ place on the throne?”

The brother she had known would have winced, would have grimaced in acknowledgement of the truth. But in his eyes now there is nothing except a chill colder than the winter winds blowing around Winterfell, a fire that burns hotter than the heart of a dragon. “I broke my word to her, yes. I can admit my mistake. Can you?”

“What I did, I did for our family. For the North.”

“Did you?”

The words are so sharp, so forceful and unexpected, that Sansa reels back as if he had backhanded her. “What?”

“Did you do it for the North, for our family...or did you do it for yourself?” Jon’s gaze is unwavering. “You’ve changed, Sansa. You’re stronger. Smarter. But you’re too much like the people who’ve hurt our family. You only see this as a game. Didn’t Cersei do the same? And Baelish? They were cunning, ruthless, and damn anyone who got in their way of collecting power.”

Sansa blanches, feels her stomach in her throat, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. No. No, that’s not right. “You think I’m collecting power for power’s sake?”

“Aren’t you?” Now Jon simply sounds tired and he plants his hands on the table, leaning, _sagging_ , against it. “You never gave her a chance, Sansa. The moment I came to Winterfell, you were determined to find something--anything--wrong with her. It doesn’t matter what she sacrificed, it doesn’t matter that she was willing to trust us on nothing but my word. She was a threat to you, to your power, and you wanted her gone.”

“That’s not true.”

She hates the waver in her voice.

_That’s not true. I’m not like them. But you can’t blindly trust her, you can’t. That’s how...that’s how..._

Jon looks up at her and for a long moment says nothing. Then, quietly, “You’re afraid.”

Afraid.

The simple statement is like a knife in her heart, into the very soul of the matter itself, past all of her defenses and arguments and walls and anger. And with its plunge, heat spills out, fury and fear covering her hands and her breath, and it is as if she has become undone.

“Of course I’m afraid, Jon!” she snaps and this time it is him who flinches backwards. “I’ve trusted people in power before. I trusted them to do the right thing and _they never did_. You’ve seen what that sort of blind trust has done to this family. I saw Father beheaded because I was stupid enough to believe Joffrey would keep his word. Arya was at the Red Wedding, where Robb’s own bannermen betrayed him. Rickon died in front of you, Jon, because we didn’t have enough power to save him. For years, our family has been torn apart by trusting _other_ people to keep their word. And we lost--we _kept_ losing because we weren’t strong enough. So the only people we can trust in is our family. And the North is our _home_ , Jon. _Winterfell_ is our home. We can only protect it and the people who live here from a position of power. And sometimes power is a terrible thing.”

She stops, trying to rein in her emotions, trying to pull back her vulnerabilities, to hide them away--this is something that can be used against her, an exploited weakness. And she doesn’t know--she just doesn’t _know_ \--if Jon is someone who won’t do that anymore.

“So yes,” she says, heart beating as if she had raced around Winterfell nonstop. “I want power. I want the security that power brings. Because there is nothing I won’t do to keep us safe.”

Jon sighs. “But that applies to everyone except you?”

Sansa looks away. “It’s easy for you to trust people. You always believe the best in people, just like Father.”

“You think it’s easy for me?” There is such bitter incredulity in his voice that she glances back at him, sees him shaking his head. “Sansa, I _died_ because I trusted that my men would see a greater threat than the wildlings, that they would trust me to know what I was doing. They didn’t and they put a knife in my heart for it. I’ve paid for mistakes and my vows and my trust in people. The hardest thing I’ve ever done, after everything, is to keep trusting. Because sometimes that’s all you can do, when there’s no other choice. You have to take a leap of faith.”

Sansa looks at her brother for a moment, truly looks at him, at this dark-cloaked figure still with the scars of a bitter betrayal on his chest, with dark circles under his eyes, his leathers soiled and battle-worn even after all of this time. With his hair unbound and curling wildly around his face, he almost looks like the teenager who had left for the Night’s Watch years and years ago. But there is an exhaustion in his eyes and a quiet steadiness about him that only comes with responsibility and time that belies it.

_We never should have left Winterfell._

Her shoulders slump and she bows her head with a sigh. “You’re asking me to put my faith in her. I can’t forgive her for what she’s done and I can’t do what she would ask of the North.”

“You forgave Theon.”

It is a low blow, one that Sansa is sure she doesn’t deserve. Theon had saved her from Ramsay, had led her to Brienne and safety and protection. He died protecting Bran. It is not fair to say her forgiveness of him is on the same level as forgiving Jon’s queen.

 _But didn’t Theon’s betrayal lead to everything that ruined Winterfell_ , a voice in her head whispers. _Ser Rodrick died at his hand. Winterfell was captured by the Boltons because of him. And if Winterfell hadn’t fallen, maybe Robb and Mother would never have…_

Sansa’s hands clench into fists and she closes her eyes. She can hear Jon sigh from the other end of the table and realizes they have come to an impasse. They are both asking too much of the other and they both know it--and neither of them will cross this massive gap. Sansa knows that she cannot--will not--do what Jon has asked, cannot disregard her training and her experiences to place faith in a woman who has already shown herself to be untrustworthy ( _and aren’t you the same_ , the voice coyly whispers in her mind and Sansa shies away from it because she cannot, she _is_ not…).

“It may not have meant anything to you, Sansa,” Jon finally says, tone hushed and weary, “but I was true to my word in what I said.” Sansa shakes her head.

“I’ve told you. You can’t protect me. No one can protect me.”

Jon sighs.

“You never let me try.”

She looks up then as Jon walks around the table towards her. He seems to hesitate for just a moment as he stands across from her before he reaches out and places his hand on her cheek.

“Everything I've done...the North is my home too."

She knows this. She knows. He has always been a good man. The best of all of them.

And yet...

She has crossed the line, she knows. She has done it for the North, for Winterfell, for Arya, for Bran, for Jon himself. These are her sacrifices, this is what she must disregard and throw away to make sure she does not lose any of them ever again. It is fear and it is as terrible as the power she seeks to wield herself. And she knows, she knows, she has asked too much of Jon, after everything, after all of it…

She doesn’t respond. She can't.

She looks away.

“You should speak with Bran.”

It is a dismissal. It is something more. She can feel Jon’s eyes on her, steady and sad and cold, and then she sees him out of the corner of her eye move away towards the door.

_Say something. He's your brother. He trusts you. You have to trust him._

_A leap of faith..._

He pauses before he leaves.

“Sansa.”

She does not turn. She cannot...she will not...

“Sansa. I respect you. I love you. You will always be my sister. But...”

 _But_.

She closes her eyes. 

And says nothing.

_Jon..._

Then the door closes and it is too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant for this to go up yesterday but this chapter turned into a beast and is officially the longest one to date.
> 
> Next chapter: The Executioner and the return of a familiar face...sort of.


	28. The Executioner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Messenger

Shattered ash-covered bricks crumble beneath his weight as Tyrion places one last stone on top of the burial mound.

It has been weeks since the destruction of King’s Landing and while some areas of the city and the Red Keep have been cleared of debris and corpses, there are many--far too many--choked with dust and rotting bodies. The eastern troops have been making some progress but the northern armies have been as stubborn as mules about putting together the fallen pieces of the very city they hated and tore down. And since Jon has vanished back to Winterfell, they’ve been grumbling more often about their place in the city and their naked desire to return home as soon as possible.

Tyrion grimaces as he slips down the small burial mound, nearly slicing open his hand on the debris that litters the passageways beneath the Red Keep. In the pre-dusk gloom, he can see the monstrous skull of a dragon in the flickering shadows of his torch. Once before, such a sight would have filled him with awe. Now it only settles into his heart with confusion and anger and grief. 

It is the confusion that unsettles him the most. As he looks up at the burial mound, he wonders exactly when his journey of missteps and miscalculations will end. It had all seemed so obviously, painfully clear once the rampage was over--the madness in Daenerys that Varys had worried about had finally come to fruition and there was no path forward except to convince Jon to betray the woman he loved, to kill her before the entire realm plunged into war again. It had been so simple. Easy, even.

 _Nothing is ever easy_ , Tyrion thinks as he sits heavily down on a large rock, rubbing at his face. The most confounding thing--the most ludicrous of all things--is the grief and regret and horror that consumes Daenerys’s expression whenever she speaks now, as if she too cannot believe what she has done. It has tempered his anger and his own grief, as the young woman looks around at the sheer amount of destruction she has caused and is nearly overwhelmed by the atrocity. 

_This_ is the kind-hearted young woman he had found in Meereen. _This_ is the queen whom he said he would follow to the ends of the earth.

_Perhaps you don’t know me at all then._

Tyrion once thought he was a clever man. But there is a puzzle in front of him now that he cannot piece together--or worse, he is afraid to. How does a warm-hearted woman seeking to bring justice to the world become a vindictive harbinger of death and destruction in the matter of a few simple weeks? Yes, she lost two of her dragons, her protector, and her best friend within that span and discovered her lover was her nephew with a stronger claim to the throne than she. But now that he has had time to peer through his own grief, his own fury, it all seems terribly unlikely. Especially since he has seen the ghost of that day weigh more heavily on Daenerys’s shoulders than anything ever has.

Tyrion lets out a sigh, staring in the gloominess at the burial mound that is only the marker of where his brother and sister lay. It may have been wiser to burn them and perhaps assuage his guilt that he had truly been the executioner of their demise but so deep beneath the Red Keep, the fire may have run wildly out of control. True, the strongest of the fires had been in the courtyards surrounding the Keep itself (he thinks, sourness in his stomach, that he may have come across the remains of a Clegane in one of those courtyards) but the lower levels had brought death in their collapse. The fury of the dragon had not penetrated this far underground.

Something nags at his memory there but he ignores it, feeling his legs start to cramp. It has taken him most of the day to pile more rocks on top of Jaime and Cersei’s bodies, to obscure them from view. Daenerys’s troops never would have helped him to bury the queen they came to dispose of and her traitorous brother. The survivors of King’s Landing, despite whatever feelings they may have once harbored for Cersei, would never have helped the former Hand of the woman who destroyed their livelihoods and killed their friends and family. So since the very morning, Tyrion has moved rock after shattered rock on top of their bodies, the still lingering smell of smoke obscuring, for the most part, the sickly sweet rotting odor from their bodies. The times that it didn’t, Tyrion had to stop, gagging and crying and forcing himself not to look past the gaps in the stone at the decrepit remains of his siblings.

There is a part of him that wonders what he is supposed to do now. Daenerys has granted him his life as both a favor to Jon and as punishment for every bit of wrong he has ever done. There is some justice in that, he supposes. But he does not know what he is supposed to do with this second (third? Fourth? Tenth? He has lost count) chance. Is he to advise Daenerys? Take his ill-begotten gains and head back to Essos? Sail to the ends of the world, never to be heard from again?

Slowly, he clambers to his feet. It seems that even Daenerys doesn’t know how to proceed into this new world she has created. He remembers his words to Jon in that makeshift prison, wonders how he could have been so wrong. The queen who always firmly believed in her actions, who rode on the promise of destiny, now seems paralyzed, fearful of her own wants and longings and wishes.

_It is everything you ever wanted. It is everything you have ever dreamed._

How bitter that must taste.

Is it his duty to help guide her on a path to light? He had told Jon that it had been vanity to think he could direct her. But he had never once doubted Daenerys, even after Varys’s concerns.

Concerns that were only brought up once the Night King was destroyed.

He keeps coming back to that small detail because it is that which bothers him the most. It had been such a short span of time, from the moment Arya Stark buried a knife into the Night King’s heart to Daenerys laying waste to the capital she wanted to rule over. Everyone was grieving, everyone was shocked, everyone was tired--so what made Daenerys more susceptible to madness when she had never shown anything that would have hinted at that before? Tyrion had not been with her for her years of begging alongside her brother or her momentary rule as a _khaleesi_ or her travels throughout Essos. But he has no doubt that she lost and hurt and grieved throughout that time too? 

So what made this time different? What made those few hours, when a woman that Tyrion did not recognize as the queen he believed in rained fire and death upon a city of civilians, so abnormal?

_I worry about her state of mind._

The young woman, the queen, smiling, proud…

...and disappearing into someone who brought as much death as the Night King himself.

Tyrion rubs at his face again. It is a puzzle perhaps best left to another day. The last thin rays of sunlight have already petered out into nothingness and the torch he has laid down by the massive dragon head will likely splutter into darkness soon as well. He walks over to where the torch lay amongst the rubble and picks it up, his footsteps swallowed up by the dust and ash.

But his are not the only footsteps he hears.

He pauses, listening. The passageways beneath the Red Keep are massive and serpentine, layers upon layers of twisting and unraveling tunnels that delve deeper and deeper into the earth. There are dozens--perhaps hundreds--of ways to sneak in and out of the Red Keep from the tunnels winding beneath its bulk. Some are secret tunnels, built for whispers and spies, the lustful and the paranoid. Some are merely shortcuts down to the streets of the common folk, for those in the royal household and their servants to skitter around the pomp and splendor of the main gates. It is not too much a stretch of the imagination to believe someone else would be down here.

 _The question is...why_ , Tyrion thinks as he hesitates for a mere moment before following the sound further down the hall. The Unsullied would have no use for sneaking about the bowels of the palace, and neither would the Dothraki, especially considering how nervous cramped spaces make the latter. The northern army, of course, might, in their boredom, have decided to peak into the deeper areas of the palace. _Ah, but would they?_

There are still too any of the people of King’s Landing who may have known of any of those entrances and tunnels, secret hovels and doors that led into the very heart of power. Someone quite angry with the queen might have taken it upon themselves to accomplish what the Starks couldn’t and didn’t.

“And here I am, walking towards it,” Tyrion mutters under his breath as he rounds a corner and nearly stumbles down a small flight of steps. As it is, his torch slips from his grip, burning him on its descent, and lands in a small pile of ash at his feet with a muffled thud. He curses and reaches down to pick it up...and sees the faint glowing light of another torch, thrown against the distant wall of the far end of the corridor the steps lead down to. The light, which had been bouncing as if in step with the person holding it, pauses.

Tyrion holds his breath and doesn’t move.

After a moment, the person holding the light must be satisfied by the lack of noise and the light continues to grow dimmer as the person moves further down the corridor. Tyrion takes one glance at his torch and then curses, moving as quickly and quietly as he can down the stairs, and rushes towards the light, even as it grows fainter. He can hear the soft steps of someone moving down the corridor at a brisk but unworried pace.

 _Someone with a regular gait._ Tyrion can already feel his legs begin to cramp as he wills himself to chase the mysterious torch-wielder down. He hopes that whoever it is, they’re not holding a particularly nasty sort of grudge and are perhaps a nice lost soldier or commoner. In fact, it would be even nicer if he decides to just let them continue on their way.

He does not.

Instead, he turns the corner and finally sees the figure holding the torch, a little more than a stone’s throw away. Slim, dressed in form-fitting blacks, and moving swiftly down the corridor with an easy but determined purpose. Even from this distance, Tyrion catches sight of the golden-brown hue of the hand holding the torch and the slight glimmer of gold woven through the person’s hair, winking with every flicker of flame.

There are only so many people in the capital who fit that description.

Tyrion surges forward and before his brain can catch up to this mouth to inform him that this particular person might have a weapon, he says, “Lost?”

The figure stops and spins so quickly that Tyrion barely registers that glimmer of steel that briefly appears at the figure’s side before it is flying towards him...and disappears somewhere over his head. 

A fine time to be a dwarf, Tyrion thinks. If he had been a few inches taller, surely that knife or dagger would’ve embedded himself smartly between his eyes. He clears his throat. “Is that the normal sort of greeting down in Dorne? I’m afraid I’m not too familiar with your customs.”

Sarella Sand narrows her eyes--her father’s eyes, a _serpent’s_ eyes--at him and lowers the torch slightly. He sees then that she is still dressed in a man’s leathers and trousers, her fall of dark braids cascading loosely down in her back. Even though she has thrown a knife at him, he remembers enough about the other Sand Snakes and about their father himself to know that there are probably more weapons tucked away on her person. He holds up his hands to show that he himself is not armed, though he suspects that his stature is enough to lower her defenses--not many people are too terrified of a dwarf in a dark corridor. “I apologize for frightening you.”

The Dornishwoman’s lips quirk upwards in what is either a half-hearted smile or a disapproving grimace. “You do not frighten me, Tyrion Lannister.”

“Ah, yes. You throw knives at people as a friendly unworried gesture.” He shrugs. “Like I mentioned, I’m not very familiar with Dornish customs.”

The smile she gives him now is saccharine. 

“We throw knives at little men who talk too much. And men who stalk down corridors unannounced.” 

“Yes, well…” Tyrion glances around. “I used to live here. I think I am allowed to stalk down corridors unannounced. Perhaps I wanted to relive old memories.”

“You lie prettily, my lord of Lannister. If only everyone had your tongue, the world would be a much more interesting place.” Despite her easygoing smile, there is something about the woman’s expression that remains completely enigmatic. Another trait from her father, Tyrion supposes. Oberyn did have that gift of being able to talk to you, with a smile on his lips and lilt in his voice...right before skewering you with a dagger you never saw aimed at your throat, too distracted by the glib words and friendly manner.

“I have known many other people who wish I would not talk so much.”

“Such as the queen?” At Tyrion’s look, the Sand Snake laughs. “You think it is a secret, that mistrust? You both wear it so clearly on your sleeve. But strangely, you act as if it is not truly mistrust. Only...a misunderstanding. And what a misunderstanding this must be, to lay waste to a city and to win a crown.”

Tyrion does not like the direction that this conversation can possibly be head in and if his mistrust of someone he once loved and admired is strong, his mistrust of this strange new piece in the game of thrones is stronger. “And yet, she seems to be drawing enemies and allies old and new, if your presence is any indication…though I noticed you don’t speak with a Dornish accent.”

“I left Sunspear many years ago,” Sarella says, as she turns and begins her stroll down the corridor. Tyrion frowns and follows after her. “Strangely, people treat you differently when you don’t sound or look like you belong--shocking, I know. So even though I would never look like I belonged, I could sound like I did. People are funny like that--they will accept all sorts of things about you, as long as you soothe their nerves about your being different.” Her smile grows a little wider. “Perhaps something you and I and the queen all share in common--we’re different but perhaps not so different.”

Tyrion says nothing. If anything, the easy and friendly words only unsettle him more. There is something about the girl and her appearance in King’s Landing that does not sit right with him, especially not how easily she had ingratiated herself to Daenerys, who would always, it seems, have a soft spot for the bastards of the world.

Sarella seems to take his silence as acquiescence as she turns a corner. He sees a faint frustrated frown on her lips, as if she had been expecting something different. But he does not remark on it as she continues, “I wonder if that is why your sister and your father did not suspect my father of his true intentions when he came to King’s Landing.” She pauses. “I thank you by the way. If you had not killed the boy king, Elia may never have been avenged.”

“That is,” Tyrion notes dryly and with some surprise, “the first time anyone has directly thanked me for killing Joffrey. Though I would suspect that you would some...grievance against me, regarding your father. You do have my sincerest regrets about what happened to him.”

Sarella snorts. “My father would never have been at peace until he killed the man who killed his sister. The only regret I have is that he did not live to see it.”

Now this causes Tyrion to frown. “He had mortally wounded Gregor Clegane. Even if he didn’t see him take his last breath, he--”

“It is easy to bring down a mountain,” Sarella hums as she ducks through a door. “It is not so easy to bring down the ground on which the mountain sits. One needs to be patient, one needs to be prudent, and one needs to play the long game better than even the best player. My father knew that. My uncle Doran knew that. My uncle Olyvar knows it too, though he pretends not to.”

There are many things about the new prince of Dorne that Tyrion does not know. At first, he suspected it was merely because the younger brother of Doran and Oberyn had long been rumored to be a wayward recluse, running away from his royal duties long before Jon Arryn had been killed (and isn’t that still a shock). But with Sarella’s arrival as a proxy to the prince and her words just now, he suspects that the enigmatic Olyvar may know more than he lets on.

Which, of course, leads him to wonder why exactly Sarella is prowling the depths of the Red Keep on her lonesome.

“Your father wanted my father dead,” Tyrion muses aloud. “I am always glad to fulfill the wish of a dead man.”

“Rumor has it you and your father never quite saw eye to eye.”

“I never quite saw eye to eye with many people. It is quite impossible, you see.” He gestures at himself.

Sarella laughs. “Oh, he must’ve loved you. You were probably the best of them. Certainly much better than your father. I would have thought you would be a direct copy of him.”

“I would hope not. I killed the original one.” He peers up at Sarella, giving her a pointed look as they pause in the middle of a long hallway. “And all of the platitudes in the world won’t help you find whatever you are looking for down here.”

The woman’s eyes glint. “Hmm, is it that obvious?”

“Most people usually don’t skulk around dark corridors at night simply as a passing fancy,” Tyrion points out, glancing around them. This must be yet another connecting hall and gods knew where it led. He had not been lying when he told Sarella that the Red Keep was a familiar home but gods even he did not make it a habit of exploring the cavernous maze of passageways just because. “And since I doubt your uncle sent you here on a mere diplomatic mission, there must be something in particular you are looking for.”

“Someone.”

“Pardon?”

Sarella looks down at him and once again, Tyrion cannot read her expression. “Your sister imprisoned Ellaria.”

That is surprising. Tyrion raises one eyebrow at her but says nothing. Ellaria and the other Sand Snakes had been captured or killed months ago. And though Tyrion does not doubt that Cersei probably kept at least one of them around to torture, he does wonder if his sister would have continued devoting time and resources to that pastime if there was a dragon queen and a northern army breathing down her neck. Not that such things ever stopped Cersei before, once an idea got into her head.

But Sarella also doesn’t expound on that. Her expression becomes shuttered and instead she turns to continue walking down the hall.

Tyrion sighs and is about to follow her when he hears it. He stops and frowns.

Footsteps again. 

_The tunnels are a popular place to be_ , Tyrion thinks, squinting past the light of Sarella’s torch to see a figure standing just beyond in the shadows. The newcomer holds no torch and Tyrion for a moment thinks that perhaps they had done the same as he had earlier when he had come across Sarella, following the light of her torch. He gestures to the figure with a sigh. “You might as well join us.” He senses Sarella pause behind him and hears her mutter something under breath. He can almost hear her eye roll.

The newcomer does not move.

And then Tyrion sees something glint in the shadows at the figure’s side. He almost winces away from it but he realizes belatedly that it is not the silver steel of Sarella’s knife. He squints into the shadows. No, it’s not silver...it’s…it’s...

Tyrion reels backwards, as bile, acidic and sour, rises up in his throat.

No.

It is a golden hand.

He faintly hears Sarella call something behind him but he cannot even judge her tone or her words. No, there is nothing except a roar of sickening disbelief roaring through his head, deafening him and blinding him to anything except the skeletal figure in the shadows in front of him, standing silently as if waiting for a command to step into the light. And if he steps into the light...if Tyrion sees a confirmation of what he already knows is in front of him...oh Jaime, oh gods, Jaime…

Sarella takes a step forward, the torch moving with her.

And Tyrion cannot move. His feet are rooted to the floor and his heart is hammering in his throat because every nightmare, every horrible and dark thing in the world that has ever scrapped at his nerves and his very existence, has suddenly manifested right in front of him, in the shadowed figure of a dead brother, a brother he hadn’t been able to save, a brother whom he loved and lost, the remnants of him right there, the skeletal remains, the ghastly grin, the hollow sockets, the gray and rotten skin sloughed over bones, and that golden hand, hanging on by rotten threads, and oh gods oh gods…

The thing that had once been his brother lifts its head and opens its blackened jaw and a scream of the damned ricochets from its undead throat.

He hears Sarella’s sharp intake of breath and he can do nothing--the girl, the Stark girl, a knife in the heart of winter and around them all, the dropping corpses of the dead, this can’t be, this can’t _be_ \--and there is a voice in the back of his mind that sounds too much like the Jaime he knew, berating him, chiding him, _is this how you choose to die, little brother?_

He can feel Sarella angrily grab at him, shouting something at him, but he cannot hear it over the roar. Jaime, oh gods no, not Jaime, not this, not _this_...

And then his vision is consumed with fire.

_King’s Landing, burning all over again, the screams and cries of the dying filling his ears..._

The demon that wears Jaime’s corpse shrieks and shrieks and shrieks, flailing against the flames that ignite against its skin, as weeks-old decay erupts into smoke and fire, but the screaming...the _screaming_ …

 _I should have burned them_ , Tyrion thinks numbly, as the visage of his brother’s corpse thrashing and convulsing on the grime-choked floor of the Red Keep’s tunnels burns into his mind’s eyes. _I should have burned them the moment I found them_. The smell of burning rotten flesh however soon fills the tunnels, as the corpse smolders into ruin, and Tyrion takes a few uneasy steps backwards, his world suddenly a dizzying haze of nausea and smoke, and he stumbles to his knees before vomiting up what feels like everything he has ever consumed.

Sarella is cursing beneath her breath, though Tyrion has to admit that for someone who has possibly seen her first living corpse, her countenance is far more steady than most people he had known after their encounter. She is staring at the burning, smoldering ruins of the corpse in front of her...and it is only then that Tyrion sees that she is still holding her own torch aloft, the golden light bringing warmth to her face.

_Who...?_

He manages to drag his eyes away from the puddle of vomit in front of him and past the ruined remains of his brother (oh gods, Jaime, Jaime, _Jaime…_ )

And standing just beyond, her arm covered in soot and her eyes wide in what is probably a mirror of his own expression, is Daenerys Targaryen.

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment over the rising smoke and the silence that follows. There are no more footsteps in the hall, no more twists in the corridor. There is nothing except the three of them and the shadows and secrets of King’s Landing surrounding them in the shadows. Tyrion’s mind reels as he unsteadily clambers to his feet, spitting out bile as he does so. The room keeps spinning and he is not entirely sure that this is not a dream, a nightmare surely. It must be, it must be…

“Was that…?” Daenerys breathes, slowly breaking her gaze to look down at the smoking remains at her feet.

“A goddamned corpse,” Sarella hisses, approaching it with a scowl on her face. If anything, she looks more irritated that the body (Jaime, oh gods) had the gall to not stay dead, like most corpses do. Tyrion watches as she circles the pile of bones and brittle skin, kicking away a few embers that dance away from the burning mound. “So the rumors were true.”

 _It hasn’t stopped snowing in weeks_ , a part of Tyrion’s mind that has not been shocked into muteness whispers. _It never snows like this in King’s Landing. Even when winter came in the past, snows like this have never come past the Neck._

But the Stark girl had wielded the knife against the Night King, had plunged it into the very heart of winter, and shattered its hold on the North…

_A dark corridor, the Stark girl imprisoned but gone, and the four mutilated bodies of the Unsullied...and the burned corpse of a poor commoner...nothing but death in the passageway...death and ice and…_

Tyrion stops.

“You were following us?” he hears Sarella say curiously. Daenerys’s answer falters at first, as if she is struggling to find her voice in the middle of her shock.

“I...heard...it was one of the northmen...he spoke of the dragon skulls,” she says, steadiness slowly seeping into her voice as she tears her eyes away from the burning remains of (no, can't think of it, mustn't think of it, no no no). “I heard footsteps and followed them and saw the light. But…”

She trails off, looking stricken.

A never-ending snowstorm. The telltale sign of winter.

And the burned corpse of a commoner…in the depths of the Red Keep _where no fires had burned._

Tyrion closes his eyes.

Dear gods.


	29. The Messenger

Winterfell lies in ruins all around him.

He knows this is a dream (a nightmare, a voice on the wind, whispering words of seduction, of rage, of _power_ ) and yet it is more real, more vivid, more tangible, than any dream he has dreamed before. He can smell the smoke in the air, feels the sting of it in his eyes, the ashy taste of it on his tongue. He can feel his limbs tremble with exhaustion, feels the bitter gales of winter against his skin, the painful pinpricks of ice and snow and hail hissing across his face as the winds blow across the crumbled towers and broken walkways. There is no part of the castle left standing. As he looks around, he sees that Winterfell has been left decimated beneath a colorless sky, blackened stones covered in gray ash and white snow and reddish-brown gore.

It is silent save for the shrieking of the wind.

He takes an uneasy step forward and then another. There is an unfamiliar lack of weight at his side--Longclaw is not sheathed at his hip. He looks down at his hands and his clothing--he is garbed in the black of the Night’s Watch, even though it has been so long--so very long--since he has called himself a brother. There is something about this that does not quite feel right, as if the clothes are sodden with blood and regret, weighing him down, dripping in tears down into the snow at his feet.

And at his feet...

He realizes, belatedly and with dawning horror, that the ground is choked with the bodies of the dead.

They lay clearly where they fell. Some have their eyes open, though the ghastly blue of the undead does not shine as bright as starlight in their dead white faces. He turns in a slow circle, as the wind howls and the snows fall into silence. There is Sam, nearly buried beneath a pile of rubble, his face gouged and shredded to the point of nearly being an unrecognizable pulp. There is Sansa, sprawled across the stones, the bloody smile across her throat that has almost severed her head from her neck the same intense crimson color as her hair. There is Davos, gutted by an invisible sword, his entrails pouring from his torso. Tyrion, torn completely asunder, limbs scattered every which way, the Hand’s brooch shoved half-buried in his ruined chest. There is Arya too, staring up at the sky, unseeing, her face kissed by snowflakes, a rivulet of blood streaming out of the corner of her mouth, her hand lying uselessly over her bloodied chest, her neck blackened by frostbite.

He tries to stumble away from it but then he sees the others, all around him, people who have been dead for weeks and months and years. Edd. Ollie. Mance. Robb. His father--no, his uncle. King Robert. And there are bodies of people he should not recognize but somehow--somehow--he does. A mad king, his jaw unhinged in a wild scream even in death. A Dornish princess, her head crushed, her body mutilated. A wolf maiden covered in gore, petals from blue winter roses obscuring her face. A dragon prince, broken and bleeding and gutted--even in death, reaching towards the young woman.

No.

No, no, _no_.

Beyond the ruins of Winterfell, to the north, he sees nothing but darkness and blue-eyed demons and the red glow of something that is not dawn, swiftly moving south and turning everything it touches to dust. To the west, he sees a gargantuan monster rise up from the sea, bigger even than Drogon, tentacled and red eyed, laying waste to the Iron Islands with an unnatural shriek of rage that causes the seas to buck and crash in turmoil. And to the east, far across the Narrow Sea, he sees Braavos sinking underneath a massive tidal wave and the great Free Cities burning as creatures made of fire and shadow shriek through streets and alleys.

Further east still, he sees the smoking ruins of fabled Valyria, black shadows and a sour red hue overtaking the broken home of the dragonriders--his ancestors--and chasing it into darkness. Even from here, he can smell the brimstone and the heat of destruction, leagues and leagues away. He thinks, maybe, perhaps, he hears the ghostly cry of dragonsong. But then that too is swallowed up in darkness and ice and fire and Valyria vanishes back into the doom that consumed it, centuries and centuries ago, buried with age and forgotten.

He can hear that voice on the wind again--but it is different this time. Deeper. Richer. And as old as time itself.

_Children of fire and children of ice...and one who is both, for even princes can be crowned kings…_

He reels back from the voice, from the destruction, from the bodies. “No. No, that’s not me. That’s never been me. I don’t want it.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want.”

This voice is familiar. This voice he knows. He turns and sees her, standing with her back to the Wall, her hair and eyes the color of winter itself. Beautiful. Enchanting. Deadly. And he can see the red glow behind her, the red glow that consumed Valyria, the red glow that is not--cannot be--dawn. The darkness swallows her even as she gives him a sad smile, even as the shadows seep into her skin, claw against the pale perfection, leaving bloody gashes in their wake.

He struggles forward but his limbs are too heavy, too useless. He stumbles to the ground.

“You swore to me. You _swore_.” 

The shadows wrap around her throat, choking off her words. And the voice that emits from her throat is not her own.

“Burn them all. Burn it to the ground. Let them die, let them suffer, for everything they have done, for everything they have taken away, let them go down into hell _screaming_ …”

And the scream that comes from her throat is that of a dragon.

Around him, he senses more than sees the corpses shift as the darkness drifts into the sky, as night bleeds into the bland expanse overhead. He can feel dead blue eyes on him as his family and his friends, people he respected and people he never knew, rise to their feet, staring at him, reaching for him. He cannot stagger back--behind him there is darkness, behind him there are shadows and demons and spectres of all shapes, whispering, embracing, _here there is power, you only have to take it...take it...you want it...you've always wanted it…_

_No. No, that's not me. I don't...I don't..._

Then there is suddenly a hand on his shoulder and when he turns, he is startled to sees a man he does not know, blue eyes--a normal human hue--narrowed in urgency. He looks familiar though, like he should know him and know him well but even though the man’s mouth is moving, he has no voice. Or the shrieking sounds of the dead behind him drown him out, he doesn’t know. He can only stare, uncomprehending, shaking his head, even as the man struggles to shout at him, to shake him by the shoulders, but there is nothing...nothing...

And he sees, over the man’s shoulders, a woman, cloaked in the dust of the past, her features immutable, her heart charred and bleeding, reaching for him…

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Her face is not familiar but gods he knows that voice...he _knows_...

_When the snows fall and the winter winds blow…_

Ravens scream. The winter winds wail.

_The lone wolf dies._

_The Wall...the Wall...now your watch begins…_

_The fire that burns against the cold...the light that brings the dawn...the horn that wakes the sleepers…_

_And a sword in the darkness…_

There is something--something impossible--burning in the ruins of the Wall, something red and bright and powerful...and it is _shrieking_.

_The Wall...the Wall..._

He is falling, falling, _falling_ …

_Winter is coming, Jon._

_Winter is here._

“Jon? Jon!”

He wakes abruptly with a strangled gasp, his heart damn well near in his throat. The room spins momentarily, as gray dawn mixes with the golden light from the fire in his hearth, and it takes him a few moments of deep gulping breaths to reorient himself as he slowly sits up in the bed he had collapsed into at some point earlier. Sam, who had been hovering over him with a worried expression on his face, leans back with a frown, opening his mouth to say something but just as quickly closing it.

Jon rakes his fingers through his curls, somewhat disturbed to find that his hand is shaking. He curls his fingers into a fist to quell the tremors and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his limbs, still bruised with exhaustion, protesting the sudden movement. “Sam? What are you doing?”

“Bran is looking for you,” Sam says with more than a little bit of hesitation. “You’ve been asleep for nearly a whole day.”

 _A whole day?_ Jon feels as if he could collapse back onto the bed and sleep for another fortnight but he had never even planned that much. After his confrontation with Sansa, he had meant to find Bran, to speak with him about the things he had Seen in King’s Landing. He remembers walking down the hall towards where his brother--his cousin--usually rested...but things get muddy in his memory after that. He vaguely recalls an amused voice saying that he looked dead on his feet, a soft hand on his arm...and then darkness.

Jon rubs at his face, trying to sort out his thoughts. The images of the dream still linger in the back of his mind, unlike the dreams that plagued him in King’s Landing--those disappeared as quickly as the morning mists once the sun rose high overhead. If he concentrates, he can almost smell the blood and the brimstone here in this room, feel the cold wind seeping into his bones...

“Jon?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Sam. I must’ve been more tired than I thought.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. “I was trying to wake you up for a while. I was starting to get worried. I had to make sure you were breathing.” He lets out a small nervous chuckle.

Jon gives him a wan smile. “It’s been a trying few weeks.”

Something flickers across Sam’s face before he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. Jon thinks back to his confrontation with Sansa, how she had been confused about the appearance of Rhaegal, her initial unwillingness to speak of the collapse of the Wall or the return of the wildlings, the non-answers to his questions. He thought at first that the strange goings-on were limited to King’s Landing but his arrival in Winterfell so far has already hinted how far-reaching these events are.

_A kiss--a goodbye and an absolution and everything he could never say--and that immense overwhelming rush of dragonfire and the winds of night and winter, the world breaking and shattering beyond comprehension, roaring down into the depths of something incomprehensible, something ancient and wild and unnervingly familiar…_

Sam is already speaking by the time Jon manages to pull himself back into the present. “...or other things. She’s made sure of that. But I don’t think anyone really expected it to be a false spring, after what happened and all--”

“Sam.” His friend stops and blinks. Jon sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There are a thousand things he needs to know, unanswered questions and answers for everything has happened in the weeks since he marched south down to King’s Landing. It seems as if more has happened since then than in the years since he came Lord Commander. Steepling his fingers together and resting them against his mouth, he continues tiredly, “Sam, what’s happened here?”

Sam makes a face. “What a question.” Jon only gives him a half-hearted smile--of course it is. Sam shakes his head in response. “It’s a lot, Jon. Most of it I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to see if there is any weakness to the Wall in the books, something that maybe we overlooked. Tormund says there are no wildling stories about anything that can bring down the Wall. So…” He trails off, his brow furrowed. “I’ve been thinking about it. And there are some other things that don’t quite line up. I’m just not really sure what to make of them.”

He hesitates and Jon gestures for him to continue. But Sam only shakes his head. “You should speak with Bran. He’ll explain it better.”

 _Bran_ , Jon thinks wearily. Not truly and not for a long time either. He sighs and then with more effort than he cares to admit, he rises to his feet. He clasps Sam on the shoulder, pausing for a moment. A thousand and one lifetimes have passed since they defeated the Night King--after the battle against the dead, the last war should have been easy. It seems though that defeating the Night King was only the first of their problems. The world has been holding its breath since Arya plunged a dagger into something that Jon had once thought was a bigger threat than anyone making a claim for the throne. And now he bears the weight of that distraction. _Dany_ bears the weight of it. Briefly he closes his eyes...and then belatedly he nods in acquiescence of Sam’s suggestion.

But at the door, he hears his friend call his name. “Jon?” He glances behind him, sees Sam standing in the middle of the room, his face openly concerned. He begins to follow Jon out the door. “Are you okay?”

Gods, what a question.

He gives Sam what he hopes is a reassuring smile--from the look on Sam’s face, he fails--and then ventures off to find Bran. Sam, bless him, does not press the question.

It takes longer than he anticipates to finally find his cousin. The wildlings, having found themselves once again receiving Winterfell’s hospitality and to stave off boredom, have put themselves to work, helping to rebuild the fallen and broken walls of Winterfell. It means that the halls and the courtyards and the baileys are noisy and crowded but it also means that nearly everyone he comes across, after first expressing their surprise at this return, wants to talk with him. All of the freefolk know him--or at least know of him and simultaneously want to thank him, grouse at him, or, in one case, ask him his opinion about a certain type of mortar being used on Winterfell’s walls.

After the tenth time they are stopped, Sam leans forwards with a smile. “You’ve always been popular with them.”

“They’re just surprised I’m back in Winterfell,” Jon says with a shrug as they climb the stairs towards the solar that Bran prefers. 

“It’s not that. You know it’s not that.”

Jon is not sure why everyone seems to conflate people’s acknowledgement of him as some sort of indicator towards his rightfulness to lead...or even rule. The wildlings respected him simply because he had allowed them passage through the Wall. The Night’s Watch had elected him Lord Commander because of Sam’s own persuasions...and later pierced his heart with a knife because of his decision with the freefolk. The North had named him King in the North because they could not yet bring themselves to bestow an equivalent title to Sansa. 

And now, the only reason Sansa and Tyrion and anyone wants him to sit on the Iron Throne is because of his blood. A few years ago--seven hells, even a few months ago--would anyone have even thought that he would be the one best suited to rule the Seven Kingdoms?

He stops outside of the solar door and places a hand on Sam’s arm to bring him to a halt. He keeps his voice hushed, even though he supposes that if Bran wants, he can listen in regardless. “Sam...it can’t go any further than that. What you all think, what you all believe...it changes nothing for me. It _means_ nothing to me. I’ve given my word a thousand times over. Don’t ask me to break it. There’ve already been enough broken promises, broken vows, broken trusts to last us until the next winter. If there’s any chance that maybe, _maybe_ we can have peace for once, I have to be true to what I’ve sworn.”

Sam is quiet for a moment, looks torn. Finally, he says, “Jon, you were brought back from the _dead_. That’s a second chance to keep doing what’s right. And you’ve done what’s right, better than most. You were Lord Commander. You were named King in the North. You’ve led the Night’s Watch and protected the wildlings, helped save the North from the Night King. People trust you. People believe in you. You’re a good man who could be a good--”

Jon shakes his head. “No.” He sees the hurt in Sam’s eyes and keeps his tone calm, his voice soft. It does not take much effort--the exhaustion that still lingers in his bones takes any heat he possibly could have mustered out of his words. “Sam, I can’t be what you want me to be. A good commander, a good king--I don’t _want_ any of that. Maybe years ago, I might’ve answered you differently. But nothing is the same as it was. Everyone has asked me to do what’s best for the kingdom and I’ve fought to make sure that the Seven Kingdoms have a chance to see that. But I’m tired of fighting. Don’t ask me to keep doing this on a different battlefield. Please.”

He watches as a spasm of emotions cross Sam’s face--even more so than Jon, he has never been good at tempering his expression. After a long silent moment, Sam finally lets out a sigh and nods his head. He says, “Maester Aemon did the same.”

_What is honor to a woman’s love?_

_Yet sooner or later in every man’s life there comes a day when it is not easy. A day when he must choose._

Dany’s smile ( _a cold and alien fury in her eyes_ ), Dany’s laugh ( _the roar of dragonfire drowning the screams of hundreds_ )--always her, always the queen he knew, the woman he knows, a soft kiss, a warm embrace...and the desperation of the unspoken fire in both of them, fear and frustration and all the things that they wrought...

Jon’s smile is grim. “Aye. He did.”

_You must make that choice and live with it for the rest of your days._

Fire and blood. Her words. Their words.

_As have I._

Bran is sitting at a table in the solar but he is not alone. There is an unfamiliar older man with him who looks up curiously upon their entrance. Jon gives Sam a frowning aside glance--he had not mentioned that there would be someone else waiting with him, and a stranger at that. But the most peculiar expression has crossed Sam’s face and his animated gesture for Jon to continue into the room only confuses him more. His frown deepens and he turns back towards his younger cousin, a question already forming on his lips…

...that dies the moment he sees the smile on Bran’s face.

“Jon.”

This is not the enigmatic half-smile of the Three-Eyed Raven

A memory then, of a small boy unconscious in a bed far too big for him, his grieving mother at this side...a promise and a farewell, years and years ago...

“Bran..." He falters. “ _Bran_?”

The young man’s smile grows and it is so familiar, so _achingly_ familiar, that something twists and breaks in Jon’s heart. “It’s me. Actually me.”

Jon doesn’t know what to make of this information. He glances at Sam, who only gives him a small reassuring smile, and the stranger who wears a polite yet warm look on his own face. He turns back to Bran, whose smile has become slightly embarrassed, and pulls a chair next to his cousin, looking at him with a mix of shock and wonder. He almost reaches out to touch him but stills his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. “How is this possible? The power of the Three-Eyed Raven..."

Bran’s expression becomes grim. “Something happened. We think it coincided with the fall of the Wall.” He pauses, looking hesitant for a brief moment, before plowing on, “Jon, what happened in King’s Landing?”

“You don’t know?”

“His Sight is gone,” the stranger interrupts quietly. When Jon turns to look at him, the man bows his head respectfully. “Forgive me, my lord. We have never been properly introduced. My name is Howland Reed.”

The name rings familiar in Jon’s head. Even if he had never been named king and become aptly familiar with all the noble houses of the North, he remembers the name in the many stories his father--his uncle--had told growing up. There is not much he particularly knows about House Reed, except that they were crannogmen whose patriarch was a dear and close friend of Ned Stark’s. Having never met the man personally, Jon is not quite sure what to make of him...and he does not miss the significant looks that Bran and Sam are trading between themselves. Those looks can mean anything but he is not willing to decipher it now.

“Lord Reed,” he says with a grave nod of his head. He chooses his words carefully. “An honor to meet you--my father told many tales of your friendship. I hope your journey to Winterfell was not too strenuous?”

For some peculiar reason, the older man’s lips curl up into a slight smile. It is not a mocking thing but rather warm and apologetic. “It was not, my lord. We arrived just as the winter storms were starting to become stronger. Fortune was on our side, though the moment seems inopportune.” He nods back at Bran. “My son also had the power of the greensight, inherited from my wife, though it was never near the power which was held by the Three-Eyed Raven.”

“Before the storms arrived..." Jon murmurs, glancing back at Bran. “They came from the north?”

Bran nods. “Tormund was saying that they were planning to cross under the Wall the moment the last of the storms died. But they never got the chance...and the strange thing is that all of it seemed to happen at once. The Wall coming down, my Sight disappearing, and…whatever happened in King’s Landing.” Something in Jon’s eyes causes Bran to make a face at him. “I saw it, just briefly, before I lost consciousness. I heard hundreds--thousands--of voices screaming. And dragonfire. The oddest thing is that when that happened, Sansa heard something too--she heard wolves howling. It was painful for both of us but I think all of it is connected somehow.”

“And the fact that it’s Rhaegal outside of Winterfell, even though we were told that it was Rhaegal who was killed by the Iron Fleet,” Sam jumps in, though with far less enthusiasm Jon would have normally attributed to his best friend. There is a distracted tone in his voice and when he meets Jon’s gaze, he flushes and coughs. “It’s just...very odd.”

Odd.

_A kiss, a goodbye, an apology, his heart rending in two. A dragon queen driven into madness...and then the woman he had fallen in love with it, treacherous guilt darkening her eyes...and the raging of fire and winter in his blood, giving way to the scream of a dragon rising from the sea, a soul-deep exhaustion gnawing into his bones, and the whisper of dreams...for this night and all nights to come…_

_And the wolves will kneel. They will all_ kneel _._

He shudders inwardly before quietly asking, “Is there anything else?”

The silence that follows is profound.

And then Bran says, his voice hushed, “The wildlings spoke of shadows and spiders...and blue-eyed corpses.”

Gods.

No.

Jon closes his eyes, feeling the weariness that has been his constant companion since Melisandre breathed life back into his heart with fire suddenly seem like a physical load on his shoulders. There is a part of him (the wolves will kneel, thrumming powers hissing through the winter gales and blazing dragonfire) that is entirely unsurprised by any of this information--had he not been waiting for the exhale of breath that the world seemed to take the moment Dany conquered King’s Landing? They have been standing at the precipice for weeks now--it only makes sense that they should dive headlong into the abyss.

But there is another part of him, quieter, nearly a whisper against the maelstrom of everything else burning through his mind, that is strangely...well, not at _peace_ , exactly, but there is a sort of calm--almost satisfied--acceptance of all of this.

He does not dwell on that whisper for long.

Jon remembers the dream though and the sickeningly urgent feeling that something at the Wall is calling to him. After everything that has happened with Melisandre and her errant prophecies and Tyrion’s foreboding words about Dany’s belief in her destiny, he is not quite sure he believes in omens or prophecies or any of that, not truly. There is no doubt that there is magic in the world--the cold winds are rising again, after all--but the strange draw he now feels towards the Wall feels less like magic, less like the powers of the old gods and every great and terrible thing that has existed in the world...and more like a need, as desperate and intrinsic as breathing itself.

_The Wall...the Wall..._

_The horn that wakes the sleepers...the light that brings the dawn..._

He doesn’t know what any of this _means_.

“Jon?”

His cousin calling his name breaks him out of his reverie. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts but that pulse, once just a whisper, now seems to beat in tune with his heart. And it is without a doubt that he knows that he wants--no, he _needs_ \--to go to the Wall. Immediately.

“I’m sorry.” He pushes back in his chair, rising slowly and quietly. Bran gives him a confused look but Howland Reed is watching him as if...as if... “We’ll talk more when I get back.”

“Get back?” Bran echoes at the same time Sam asks, “Where are you going?”

_The fire that burns against the cold…_

_The Wall...the Wall..._

“North,” Jon says distractedly. He thinks perhaps either of them--or both of them--call his name but he is not sure. Despite the overwhelming fatigue that has swallowed him whole, the only thing that he can hear is that thrum of something incomparable, impossible, beating like a thunderstorm through his head. The only thing he can see in his mind’s eye is the Wall, rising up hundreds of feet, shimmering blue in the sunlight...and then the red glow and darkness of his dream overtaking it, Castle Black crushed beneath tons and tons of ice, hundreds of fleeing freefolk and black brothers smashed into red smears of gore as the avalanche of ice overtakes them.

Outside the gates of Winterfell, Rhaegal is only too eager to take to the skies again. Absently, Jon realizes he has once again not brought a cloak (a tormented young woman, a bleeding island of weirwoods) but the thought is quickly drowned away as the dragon flaps his wings, once, twice...and then they are airborne.

The storms have temporarily subsided but the dark gray clouds on the horizon are ominous. And as they soar higher, the ground itself is enveloped in a heavy fog so thick that soon it feels as if the entire world has become nothing except colorless void, the only sound the beating of Rhaegal’s wings and the furious rush of wind battering at him. Time becomes a meaningless thing, even as the cold bruises him and he can feel the alien heat of a dragon against his hands.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

_The Wall...the Wall…_

_You swore to me. You swore._

_...for this night and all nights to come..._

Jon closes his eyes and all he hears is the wind and his own blood rushing with his heartbeat.

He does not know how long they fly--here in the clouds and the mists and the fog, there is no way to discern the North passing by far below them or the pale weak light of the sun growing dimmer with each passing moment. But somehow, impossibly, instinctively, Rhaegal seems to know exactly their destination without Jon even directing him more than turning him north. The mists gradually fade and part to reveal shapeless masses below, massive and dark and jumbled, a life-sized puzzled ruined by the hand of a god...

It takes him a long moment to realize he is staring at the ruins of the Wall and of Castle Black.

The images of his dream have not prepared him for the shocking reality of it. Even as Rhaegal uneasily lands atop a pile of debris, screeching and spewing sparks in annoyance, Jon feels as though he has been punched in the stomach. There is nothing left of one of the last strongholds of the Night’s Watch, nothing at all. All of it is buried beneath tons and tons of ice, the tallest mound rising higher than even the tallest tower at Castle Black ever had. 

And of the Wall there is nothing except miles and miles of icy ruin, stretching as far as the eye can see both east and west. Some of the avalanche has caved in the treeline a mile in the dim and foggy distance and from where he sits atop Rhaegal, he can see, just barely,the broken and battered trees, their trunks splintered as easily as kindling. The remains of the Wall rise in peaks and valleys all around him--the gates and the fortifications and the lift and everything that had become familiar and known to him over the years...all of it was gone. The greatest and most impossible thing that humans had ever constructed...just gone.

Slowly, he slips down from Rhaegal’s back, apprehensively finding his footing on the shattered piles of ice beneath his boots. The dragon looks around in disapproval, snorting out a few sparks that land amongst the ice with a series of faint sizzles. It seems as though it is only noise in hundreds of miles.

Jon cautiously glances around him. If this is what Castle Black looks like, there is no doubt that the Shadow Tower has also been buried to the far west. Save for the black brothers that managed to escape to Winterfell (and he did not ask, as he should have, how many of the freefolk and the Night’s Watch escaped the cataclysmic destruction of the Wall, and he doubts that few of the brothers were out from beneath the blue shadow of the Wall when it came down), the old order has been obliterated. He remembers calling the Watch to Winterfell when the Night King breached the Wall a lifetime ago, their duty obsolete, but the Wall had still stood. The brothers had still been mostly intact.

Seven hells.

He runs his hand through his hair, surveying the wasteland around him. To the south, the winter storms have covered up the traces of the retreating few. The kingsroad is all but invisible beneath the snow. He edges his way down to a smaller pile of debris, grimacing when he notices dark brown smears further out--the remains of those who had been caught in the collapse.

_And now their watch has ended._

He is about to head further down into the devastation when he hears Rhaegal make a chuffing noise behind him. He glances back and sees the dragon’s head craned towards the north and the treeline not even a mile off. Frowning, he climbs back up on a larger chunk of ice, cursing at the slippery footholds, and follows Rhaegal’s gaze north.

There is something moving--running--from the mists of the wreckage.

Rhaegal seems more curious than alarmed and it is only for that reason that Jon doesn’t take to the skies immediately. The thing running is small at first, practically invisible in the mists, and it is only as it draws closer that it takes the familiar shape of a wolf.

No, not just any wolf.

A direwolf.

With red eyes.

“Ghost?” Jon breathes, as the white direwolf bounds over the ravaged remains of the wall with nimble ease. His coat is dusted with snow and ice which he shakes off with a fury before trotting up to Jon and butting his shoulder against Jon’s thigh, nearly knocking him over from the force of it. Jon kneels down, burying his hands in Ghost’s ruff, feeling something that he cannot describe swell in his heart. He gives the direwolf a shaky smile. “Gods, I should’ve known you’d be alright.”

The direwolf whines and licks at Jon’s face before drawing away and running a few paces away. He looks back over his shoulder expectantly, as if waiting for Jon to follow. Jon frowns, glancing up at Rhaegal, who is looking at the direwolf with only mild boredom, which is probably the most he can ask for--he is not sure what he would do if Rhaegal decided that Ghost looked particularly appetizing.

He follows the white direwolf to where the very border of Castle Black once stood against the Wall, slipping more times than he cares to count. Ghost looks back on him with a remarkable amount of patience, as if it is almost saintly of him to wait for the poor human to scramble over the uneven ruins. Jon clenches his jaw as his feet nearly fly out from under him again before he manages to find decent footing next to Ghost, who immediately begins to paw at the pile of ice beneath his paws.

What are the chances that someone survived this, he thinks briefly before Bran’s words come back to mind.

_Spiders and shadows and blue-eyed corpses._

“Ghost..." he begins and then reaches for the direwolf, pausing him in his frantic digging. Ghost whines again, nudging Jon with his snout before half-heartedly pawing at the ground again. Jon smiles wanly. “I don’t think we want to see what’s under there. It’s best you run back to Winterfell.” There is obviously no chance of getting the direwolf on Rhaegal’s back. Jon would have to trust that Ghost will find his way back to the Stark stronghold quickly and safely.

But to his surprise, Ghost only snaps at him, grabbing the edge of Jon’s sleeve and pulling him back towards the ground, towards the area where he had been digging. He stumbles to all fours from the force of the pull, the ice beneath his hands crumbling into shards from his fall. He lets out a curse, more in surprise than in pain...but it quickly peters off into silence as his fingers brush against leather.

A corpse, most likely. You need to leave.

_The dead...the dead…_

_You need to stay. You need to see this._

But he thinks he needs to see what in the world Ghost has been so insistent with digging up. He brushes away more ice, more debris...only to reveal that the leather belonged to, not a body, but a scabbard. Curiosity finally gets the better of him. It takes a few more moments of digging--and even longer to find a rock to batter away the ice which the scabbard is encased in--before he is finally able to pull Ghost’s find from the rubble.

It is indeed a scabbard, the leather soft and supple and frigid beneath his ungloved fingers. But that is not so much of a surprise as the fact that the scabbard is still holding a sword. 

Had the sword been entombed in the Wall? Jon’s brow furrows as he examines the hilt of the sword. He supposes anything is possible, though there is a chance it may have belonged to one of the brothers or wildlings, iced over in the winter storms that apparently came barreling from the north. But there is something about that hilt, something ancient and strange...and familiar…he can feel heat beneath his fingers…a fire at his back...and...and...

And...

_A woman screaming._

_Darkness. Fire. Ice._

_The shield that guards the realms of men...the monsters of old, the legends and the stories and every terrible thing that swarmed one’s nightmares, crawling up from the ground...the sleepers...the_ sleepers _..the krakens of the west and the icy demons of the north and the sword-tooth shadowcats of the east...sand demons of the south, all of them rising...waking..._ shrieking _…_

Jon reels backwards with a strangled gasp as the images assault his mind, nearly dropping the sword...and collides right into a human figure.

Ghost is by his side instantly, jaws bared, haunches raised, but as silent as ever. Jon is faintly aware of Rhaegal also looming up from a few paces away, his serpentine neck twisted towards the sky. And Jon blinks back surprise--and those images, gods, that _nightmare_ \--as he sees a woman standing behind him. 

Her eyes are not blue.

She is dressed in the leathers and furs of a wildling, though her hair is the strangest color--a vibrant golden-copper that even in the gray gloom seems to shine like fire. Despite her clothing however--and perhaps it is even more apparent due to the tint of her hair--there is an exoticism to her features that makes Jon think that she cannot possibly be Westerosi. There are heavy shadows beneath her eyes (he checks again--no, not blue) but there is something peculiar about her sudden appearance here that--

But then she is grabbing his arms and speaking and there is a lilt to her voice that he has only ever associated with Ygritte and Tormund and any of the freefolk.

“We have to go.”

And it is only then, somehow, impossibly, that Jon notices that they are no longer alone. 

In the moments he was distracted by the sword (the nightmares, the fire, the sleepers are waking up), they had become surrounded by dozens and dozens of the blue-eyed dead. The ruins of the Wall are now littered with the mangled corpses of the fallen, pulling themselves up from the wreckage or crawling across the mounds of icy debris, trailing their frozen entrails and their shattered limbs behind them. There is not a single intact body amongst any of the dead--many are missing at least one limb, most are missing two. There is one corpse, still in the tattered blacks of the Night’s Watch, whose skull has been crushed, leaving only the flattened remnants of brain, bone, and sinew attached to his spine. They stagger closer and closer...but then no further.

They are all silent. They are all staring. Not a single one of them makes a move further to rip them apart.

He is not sure how the throngs of them had appeared so silently, with neither a sound of warning from Rhaegal nor from Ghost. Rhaegal is, curiously, only watching the dead with faint interest, snorting and shaking his massive head, faint tendrils of smoke rising from his nostrils. Ghost is still pressed against Jon’s side though, hackles still raised--even through his fur, Jon can feel the direwolf’s muscles bunching, ready to pounce and defend.

The mysterious woman’s grip on his arm tightens. “Now. We have to go _now_.”

A thousand questions fly into Jon's mind at this young woman's sudden and inexplicable appearance out of nowhere but only two truly seem pressing at the moment. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The woman’s mouth twists. “You can call me Maecy. And it doesn’t matter--we don’t have time for this. We have to _go_.”

Even as the woman--Maecy--is speaking, Jon can see out of the corner of his eye more movement. Slowly pushing her behind him, Jon watches in mounting disbelief as, over the northern ruins of the Wall, come a barrage of massive spiders, their multifaceted blue eyes shuttering and blinking at them, even as their pinchers drip with a strange pale liquid. Their exoskeletons are nearly the same blinding white as the snow and ice which surround them, their claws tapping against the ice in a cacophony of clicks. There must be at least two dozen of the spiders that Jon can see, not even accounting for the ones that he can only hear.

 _Dammit_ , he thinks. The dead are to the south, the spiders to the north. He is several paces away from Rhaegal, with only Ghost and an unfamiliar sword to act as any sort of defense. He may have felt pressed if it was him alone but this mysterious woman, this Maecy, has suddenly worsened the odds. 

The arrival of the spectres only makes it worse. 

The only precursor to the sudden drop in temperature and the swarming darkness taking on vaguely humanoid shapes with eyes as bright as starlight is a low whine coming from Ghost. The demons do not so much approach the ruins as simply appear, smoking up from the rubble of ice and stone. And it is then, with the demons and the spiders and the dead and something else on the wind, that Jon realizes that even though they have all approached, even though they are all poised for something, not one of them moves to attack.

Somewhere to his side, Rhaegal lets out another chuffing sound.

Jon remembers that fateful excursion north of the Wall, nearly a year ago, when the dead had patiently waited on the edge of a lake for days. They had not moved. They had not attacked. They had simply stood stock still, ghastly sentries, soldiers ready to tear the living asunder at a moment’s notice…

But this is different. He doesn’t know why but he can feel it in his bones, an uneasiness to that fact that sluices down his spine like sweat. They are waiting for a call that will not come, he knows. The Night King is dead. The Walkers are dead. What has raised them from the depths of the earth…

_The horn that wakes the sleepers…_

_The light that brings the dawn…_

A kiss...a dragon rising from the sea...the monumental ancient defense of humans collapsing...the Raven’s Sight gone...the wolves howling...the sleepers awakening…

_Be with me. Build a world with me._

The nauseating feeling of unease grows. Jon takes another step back and then wraps his hand around Maecy’s forearm. He has no swordbelt to place the scabbard in and riding a dragon with naked steel and an additional passenger sounds like nothing short of disaster. He edges away from the demons and the spiders and the corpses, keeping himself between them and Maecy. Ghost does not move, standing his ground, as if covering their retreat.

“Rhaegal,” Jon calls firmly but quietly, and the dragon inches forward, sniffing at Maecy and Jon before lowering himself further to the ground. Maecy seems to hesitate for only a moment before she is scrambling up Rhaegal’s neck. Jon edges himself behind the line of fire and then sharply whistles for Ghost as he clambers up onto Rhaegal himself, hoping that he will run over, move out of Rhaegal’s blast range so they all can have a _chance_ at least to escape.

But the direwolf doesn’t move. His ears lay flat against his skull, his fangs bared.

_No..._

The whisper grows into a scream.

_Kill the boy._

Then one of the spiders makes a slight skittering motion forward. And it is like a dam breaking open.

Far away, he can hear Maecy shouting--dimly he is aware she is shouting at _him_ , not in fear, it is too far, too far--but Rhaegal is already rearing back, his jaw opened wide. But there is no fire, there is nothing. And the surge descends onto Ghost--a memory, a memory that doesn’t belong to _him_ , of another direwolf, standing against the dead, its growls turned into dying yelps as the knives and bones and decaying hands rise and fall--and there is something building in him, something powerful and angry and terrifying, and he can feel Maecy grabbing at him, a word that sounds like _no no no no_ …

It is the same word that erupts from him now, even as the white direwolf vanishes beneath the horde, even as Maecy screams, even as Rhaegal takes to the air with a powerful beat of his wings.

“No! Stop!”

And for once, perhaps for the first time in his entire godsforsaken life, the world actually listens.

Dozens upon dozens of preternaturally blue eyes turn up towards him, set glowing in the demonic and dead faces. They are still as stone once again, soldiers at attention, and their eyes continue to follow him as Rhaegal rises higher and higher, as the cold wind blasts his face and he becomes numbly aware that the front of the snowstorm is rolling over the woods in the distance. There is something burning fiercely in the pit of his chest, something creeping like ice through his veins, an uncanny and unspeakable force that...that...

The whispers gently curls around his thoughts, a seductive warmth, grazing against his dreams and his memories, as damned and cursed as any message brought on the wings of ravens.

_Children of ice and children of fire and one who is both...for even princes can be crowned kings..._

An embrace in the shadow of a throne made of swords.

A queen's madness.

A young woman's grief.

_It was bigger than me, bigger than anything I've ever known..._

The weariness vanishes. The fog that had settled into his mind weeks ago clears. And the eyes of the horde below, Ghost buried somewhere beneath them, continue to follow him. To watch. To wait.

To _listen_.

And he knows. As the storm encompasses them with a wail and the breath of darkness and night eases back into the world with a sigh and the nightmares of legend awaken from the earth to cry for blood and death, he _knows_.

 _No_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The Forgotten Son


	30. The Forgotten Son

Even on the clearest days, the Wall had always been far too many leagues away to see from Winterfell but that does not stop Bran from looking north now.

The wolfswood is a mass of snow-iced black trees stretching from the west to as far east as Bran knows the White Knife cuts it off. Beyond the wolfswood is the range of the northern mountains, which he used to be able to clearly see but which now has been swallowed up in the pale gray storms thundering down from beyond the remains of the Wall.

A peculiar unease has situated itself in the pit of Bran’s stomach and it flares up whenever he thinks of the Wall. His strange companion (benefactor? Ally? Friend?) who wore a dead brother’s face has not reappeared in his dreams for a long time now, much longer than his first absence. That too has Bran feeling uncertain, remembering the man’s last words, his warning.

_You have to go. They’re coming._

_Talk to the Tarly man. And the boy, the brother of winter...and the woman of the red god...they will know, they will understand._

Bran has been mulling over those words for days and days and days now. He briefly spoke with Sam about it but the black brother had only shaken his head in puzzlement (though there was hesitancy in the big man’s response, as if he had been pondering something quite similar and could not quite put it into words). However, the identities of the brother of winter and the woman of the red god still remain a mystery to him--Melisandre is dead, has been dead for weeks and weeks now, and the brother of winter? Is it one of the Starks? But Bran is the only male Stark left, the son that death forgot, and he is sure that that stranger did not mean to ask himself.

Of course, there is Jon.

The thought of his brother--his cousin--washes the unsettled ease in his stomach in ice. His sudden appearance in Winterfell and his even more abrupt departure to the Wall a few hours ago has left many in Winterfell confused and disturbed, though the wildlings and the northerners have chalked Jon’s brief appearance to something to do with the war or something official for the dragon queen. They do not know why Rhaegal’s appearance is troublesome. They do not know about Jon’s tense confrontation with Sansa (who has been remarkably tight-lipped about it, her face drawn and troubled, and that has been enough to let Bran know that the conversation between the pair had not gone well). They do not know about the strange distracted light in Jon’s eyes when Bran had mentioned the sightings in the north once the Wall had fallen. 

Afterwards, when Jon had all but fled with Rhaegal to the Wall, Bran had nothing to do except think. When Jon had left, practically deaf to their calls, Sam’s disturbed expression had most likely been a mirror of his own. Lord Howland had only looked thoughtful before quietly excusing himself--Bran has yet to come across the older man since, wondering what in the world this friend of his father’s was thinking, if seeing the babe from the Tower of Joy fully grown has awakened some old memories. 

Briefly, Bran thinks of the vision from his last dream with the stranger, of possessing Rhaegar’s body in that moment before Robert’s fatal blow. As he looks back on it now, remembering the strength and dexterity and skill in the body he possessed, he knows that the fighting talent that Jon has now may have been honed by Ser Rodrick Cassel but the preternatural instinct is all Rhaegar. He knows that Jon had always been better than Robb with a sword--with any weapon, truly--and is now a famed war hero because of his prowess. Is that what Lord Howland saw when Jon had entered into the room? Rhaegar’s ghost? 

He vaguely remembers speaking with Sansa about Rhaegar right before...well, right before everything. He admittedly knows next to nothing about the famed dragon prince except for the stories that have long proliferated in the North--that he had stolen away Lord Rickard Stark’s only daughter, that he had raped her half a hundred times, that he may have been the Mad King’s son in more ways than one. But all of that had turned out to be a lie. And without his Sight into the past, there is little more he can find out about the long-dead prince--even Daenerys has no memories of him, having not yet been born when her brother was killed.

Of course, that leads to an entirely different problem--Daenerys herself.

Before Jon’s abrupt departure, he thinks that maybe they were close to getting confirmation of what truly happened in King’s Landing. Even in those brief moments, he had seen the hesitation and reluctance in Jon’s eyes, enough to possibly confirm that the worst had happened. But Bran is not Sansa, is not even truly the Raven even more--he will not and cannot jump to conclusions, to confirm a bias that he is not sure he has. Because honestly, he is not entirely sure what he thinks of Daenerys. He has only ever known her when he was the Raven, never as simply Bran Stark. He knows that she is stubborn and proud and beautiful, knows that there is some powerful and ineffable bond between her and Jon. 

And he...doesn’t hate her? Not truly. Bran realizes that he simply doesn’t know enough about her as himself, especially with the Raven’s memories and Sight closed off to him. And even his own memories since he became the Raven in truth are unreliable things, tinged with that feeling of being controlled like a puppet.

_Wolves are not meant to fly._

He frowns.

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

Bran glances away from the northern wolfswood and towards Meera, who is sitting on the ground across from him, her back against the low wall to protect her from the gusts of wind blowing in from the north. Her head is bowed over some remnants of dragonglass that had survived the fight against the dead, her dark curls spilling like oil over her shoulders. Carefully, her fingers nimble and sure, she sharpens the dragonglass down into an arrowhead, a small pile of them already growing at her side. 

Bran can’t help himself--he blushes and then tries to hide it with a cough when she looks up. “I am not.”

“You’ve been thinking too hard ever since Jon left,” Meera replies with a shrug. “Your face is going to get stuck that way if you keep frowning like that. It’s not like you can do much of anything until he returns. And yes, _when_ he returns, Bran, not _if_. Don’t tell me you weren’t about to say that.”

He opens his mouth to argue that he was not about to say that but his lips are already slightly parted for the rebuke and he shuts his mouth with an audible snap, flushing. It seems that nowadays, Meera is taking far too much delight in jumping ahead of him, of predicting his actions and words before he himself even realizes it. He is not sure whether to be irritated with her or relieved. So after a moment, and seeing the small smirk on Meera’s face, he says instead, “I have to think about it, Meera. Nothing is right.”

Meera hums thoughtfully, holding the piece of dragonglass in her hands up to catch the falling light of day. “Things haven’t been right ever since this place fell to the krakens and the flayed men all of those years ago.”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugs, tossing the dragonglass arrowhead atop the small pile of similarly-shaped pieces. “I know. But we’ve been fighting or been on the edge of something terrible for years now, Bran. The only thing that has changed is the players.” Reaching into the small pouch cradled in her lap, she pulls out another jagged piece of dragonglass, the violet-veined black glass swallowing the pale gray light that hits it. “Years ago, it was King Robert’s death and the War of the Five Kings. And then it was Boltons and Queen Cersei. Then the army of the dead and the Night King. And now the Wall has fallen and there are rumors of something terrible coming from the north again. The thing is, Bran, the story’s still the same. It just never ends.”

Bran frowns. “You’re rather calm about it.”

Meera snorts, tying her pouch closed with more force than is probably necessary. “I could worry about it but what good is that going to do? If there is something coming from the north, I’d rather be prepared than wonder what if and glare at the woods in the distance.” She glances up at him then, an eyebrow raised at what Bran feels is a mocking tilt. “Though at least that’s more emotion you showed when you became a god.”

Ah.

There is always that terrible unspoken thing between them. There are still parts of Bran’s memory that he doesn’t know if he can trust--doesn’t know how much of himself that truly belonged to him still existed once the power of the Raven took over--but he remembers their cold parting, the Raven’s emotionless dismissal of this young woman who had quite literally gone through hell with him. Where Jojen and Summer and Hodor had fallen to winter and Rickon and Osha to the Boltons, Meera had stayed by his side, fighting with him, fighting _for_ him--and the Raven had simply thanked her and sent her on her way.

They have not discussed that. Bran has not brought it up and neither has Meera, though it skirts on the edge of every single conversation they have. Bran doesn’t know if he should ask for her forgiveness over something he is not sure he ever had any control over--how much of Brand Stark had simply vanished, been crushed into oblivion, by the sheer power of the Raven? And now he is awake again, bruised and worried, and wary of that power, of that very being that had consumed him and twisted words and stories to shape the battle of night and winter into...

He stops. He cannot think of that now. It is too big, too impossible.

Instead, he says, “It was wrong, what I said back then. After everything...”

Meera shrugs but her focus on the dragonglass suddenly becomes more intense. “The Bran I knew never would’ve said what you said. I can’t very well hold that against you. I had done my part and you had your destiny. Why apologize for that?”

“Because it wasn’t right.” He shakes his head, suddenly feeling very tired. Despite everything that threatens to descend onto Winterfell, despite the terror in the north and the unknown in the south, there is something even more fragile here, something pure and selfish and something that Bran cannot ever hope to understand. “Even before I became the Raven, I never even said thank you. I don’t have an excuse for that. I was selfish. You were right. I never would’ve made it far with your help or anyone’s help. I was distracted but it wasn’t right. So I’m sorry. You...you deserved a lot better than that.”

She looks up at that, silently, a look on her face that Bran cannot quite comprehend. So he rushes on. “I mean it. It doesn’t seem like that’s enough. And I’m still distracted now, with Jon and King’s Landing and the Wall and everything that’s happening. And it feels like I might let you down again. So...I’m sorry. And thank you. You could’ve stayed home. You didn’t have to do any of this and you’re still dealing with me. So thank you.”

An uneasy silence falls between them. Meera is still staring at Bran so intently that he feels heat rise into his cheeks and he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. He has probably said too much. Maybe he didn’t need to be so effusive with his thanks--he had most likely been rambling. Even if Meera was (is?) his friend, it is not the lordly thing to do to just talk aimlessly with no point, tripping over words and phrases at an attempt at an apology--

“You think I did it just because I _had_ to?”

Bran blinks, turning back to her. Meera’s brow knits as she sits back against the wall, crossing her arms. She looks irritated. “What?”

No, that is certainly a look of irritation on her face now. She is scowling at Bran as if she thinks he’s the densest person on the planet--which is probably not too far because he certainly feels like the densest person on the planet under that glare. “Everyone in the North knows it: _there must always be a Stark in Winterfell_. The Wardens of the North have always been Starks and their seat of power has always been Winterfell. I thought that maybe all of the evil that came upon the North when Joffrey did what he did to your father and the Greyjoys and the Boltons took over Winterfell was because of that saying, like it was a curse. And then all of those things happened with the army of the dead and the Night King and the Children and I had to kill my own brother because of it and Summer and Hodor died because of it and you still think I did any of it because I thought I _had_ to?”

“Maybe?" Bran says though his voice doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.

“You dumb..." Meera rolls her eyes up to the overhang that keeps the winter winds and snows from barreling down onto their heads.. “Bran, I did it because I _wanted_ to. I stayed with you for over a year north of the Wall. I took you there and then I brought you home. You really think that I would have done any of that simply because I thought it was my duty as a vassal? That because you’re a Stark and I’m a Reed that I didn’t have anything outside obligation?”

Bran is not entirely sure how to respond to this. For the longest time, he had thought of Jojen and Meera as guardians first and friends second. Jojen had helped him understand his greensight. Meera had been his protector and provider. When did the lines get blurry, especially with Meera? Was it in that year when he had been training under the former Three-Eyed Raven? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. The moment they had found the Children, his memories became watercolor things, mixing in with visions of the past and visions of a present that did not belong to him, Meera and Hodor and Summer becoming mere ideas of people rather than solid figures.

And yet...

 _It must’ve been awfully lonely for her_ , Bran realizes and it is such a belated shock that it immediately comes along with a wave of guilt. They were north of the Wall for well over a year and Meera only him and Hodor and Leaf to truly speak to, and Hodor and Leaf didn’t really count. In those earlier times when Bran was not learning about his powers, he and Meera had spoken often, about their childhoods, about their families, about everything they could think of--and then, as time progressed and Bran’s understanding of his Sight deepened, he began to pull away. From Hodor. From Summer. 

From Meera.

_Any gift given by the Children is always poisoned._

He thinks of Uncle Benjen. He thinks of the nameless man who had become the Night King, a vision and a face lost to him, gone with his Sight. He thinks of the wizened old man in the tree and the terrible gift-- _is it truly a gift?_ \--that he passed on to Bran before the Night King himself ended his life. None of this is what he dreamed. None of this is what he wanted. And the young woman who had stayed beside him all that time, out of duty, out of friendship, out of mere _want_ …

Oh, he’s been such a bloody _idiot_.

“Meera..." he starts, suddenly more unsure of himself than he has been in awhile. To be an all-knowing god is one thing. To be a mere young man, confronted with how callous he has been towards a young woman he...he... “I’m sorry. I’m not saying any of this right. I should’ve said it a long time ago. I should’ve understood a long time ago, before it was too late.” 

_I should have told you..._

Meera doesn’t say anything so Bran quietly ventures on. “Is it? Too late, I mean.”

 _How much did I lose when I became the Raven_ , he thinks, recalling his conversation with Brienne awhile back. _How much will I keep losing? The price that has to be paid, the cost of it all even when the powers are gone...was it worth it? To protect, to see, to save--that power...and to lose everything about myself…_

A terrible price.

Meera sighs. She begins gathering up the arrowheads from her pile, shoving them into one of the hidden pockets in her worn trousers. Bran only watches her silently as she finishes up and rises to her feet. There is a moment of hesitation in her posture as she does not quite look at him, her mouth pressed into a grimace against words that Bran can only guess that she wants to yell at him. 

Then, “I’ll take you back inside.”

Oh.

Bran looks away. “Just a few more moments.” He can feel Meera’s gaze on the top of his head but he cannot meet her eyes. Maybe he’s a coward after all, hiding behind the excuses of what the Raven did to him. Or maybe...maybe...

“I’ll send Pod.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her move away. And hesitate. “Bran?”

He doesn’t trust his voice enough to respond so he forces himself to look in her direction. She stands, haloed by the archway of the stairwell, her face a carefully blank mask. But then she shakes her head, a half-smile briefly flitting across her face.

“If you asked me, I’d do it again.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Whatever expression crosses his face--relief? Surprise?--is enough to turn the half-smile into the rare mischievous grin that Bran has come to know from her. And then she turns and is gone and Bran is half-tempted to groan and bury his face in his hands, thinking of all the things he could have said, should have said, that may not have made him sound like anything except the young lord of a castle. 

As it is, he lets out a frustrated sigh and leans back in his chair, staring up at a colorless sky that is darker on the northern horizon than it had been earlier. Night--the regular night--will fall soon, and he is not sure what it will bring. Meera has already berated him for thinking that maybe Jon won’t come back but Bran cannot help that feeling of dread whenever he thinks about his cousin. It is that strange distracted look that appeared in Jon’s eyes when Bran mentioned what the wildlings saw on their race south. It is the still unknown details of everything that had taken place in King’s Landing. It is the dragon, a dragon that everyone believed--knew--had fallen into the sea.

Meera says he’s thinking too hard, too much, but…

He closes his eyes with a sigh. He just needs...something. If not that power (enough to drown in, to scream, to be crushed by) he needs at least something to point him in the direction he wants to go. To understand. To protect. To act. He doesn’t want to lose himself again (doesn’t want to lose Meera, doesn’t want to see that look of betrayal in her eyes) but there has to be something beyond the confines of Winterfell, on the black pinions of the ravens that wield his title, that can be helpful. Something that he is missing, some answer just out of reach…

And when he opens his eyes, he nearly falls over in surprise.

He is standing in a weirwood grove, the scarlet leaves and white branches woven thickly like a canopy overhead--even in Winterfell, Bran has never seen a copse of weirwoods so thick, their foliage heavy enough to nearly block out the sunlight. And there is sunlight, dappled across the snowless ground in patches of gold, intermingling with the plush carpet of dark green grass and fallen crimson leaves. The crisp scent of pine needles and the heavier odor of rich wet soil lays over him like a cloak, seemingly more real even than the cold and blindingly white expanse of Winterfell’s godswood.

Bran turns in a slow, disbelieving circle, looking for the stranger who wears his brother’s face. This is a vision, he knows--no matter how real it seems, how real it feels, it is nothing more than that. But he sees no one. There is nothing surrounding him except the grand white weirwoods, some with bleeding faces but most without, and nothing to hear except...he frowns. No. No, he most definitely hears it--the sound of steel clashing with steel, of faint masculine grunts of exertion. He hesitates for only a moment before following the sounds of a scuffle to another clearing.

It does not take him long to find the source of the noises. In a clearing less thick with trees, sunlight basking down more freely onto the ground, are two men sparring with a skill that takes Bran aback. They are young--maybe only a handful of years older than Bran himself. Steel flashes against the pale golden light as the two men practically dance around each other, striking at each other with what should be lethal blows. The shorter of the two men--darkly-bearded and pale-eyed and solidly built--is the slower of the two, landing fewer blows than his partner but each blow he does land is jarring and powerful enough that even Bran winces from where he stands.

The other man, taller and paler and faster, his own dark hair pulled into topknot, blocks each of the bone-shattering blows with an almost graceful deftness, shifting his weight and his grip on his sword to soften the worst of the attacks. Even Bran can see that despite their difference in fighting styles, the two men are more-or-less evenly matched: strength versus speed, offensive power versus a mercurial defense. More interesting is the fact that the styles are completely strange and foreign to Bran himself and the little boy within him who had wanted to be a knight so badly is both fascinated and bewildered by the graceful movements. It is as much a showcase of speed and strength as it is a dance--

\--a fact quickly ruined as the taller of the men stumbles backwards on a root protruding from the ground. He lets out a curse but cannot quite keep himself from falling, barely managing to keep from skewering himself on the way down.

The shorter man lets out a bark of a laugh and bends over, one hand on his hip, the other still wrapped around the hilt of his lowered broadsword. When he speaks, there is something strange about his voice beyond it sounding out of breath, something peculiar about his words that Bran cannot quite put his finger on.

“I told you we should have practiced along the shore.”

The pale man grimaces and his companion leans forward, offering him a hand. He clasps it with a sigh, rising to his feet and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Despite the grimace, his dark eyes sparkle with amusement. “And have you best me? Sand is more like snow than this.”

“Oh, so are you finally admitting that your eastern style is not so great after all?”

“Don’t pretend that your victory was anything except a tree helping you out,” a new voice chides and Bran turns to see a young woman sitting on the edge of the clearing off to his right. The breeze whispering through the godswoods is somewhere between cold and uncomfortably cool, despite the presence of the sun, and yet the young woman is dressed only in a painted vest and trousers, a longsword resting across her lap. Her hair--the most peculiar shade of reddish blonde Bran has ever seen--is plaited into a thick braid that falls over her shoulder as she wipes the dark steel down with an oiled rag. The young woman pauses in her ministrations, grinning at the two young men. “And both of you are in very poor form today, regardless. I’ve seen my little brother spar better than that.”

And then the absolute strangest thing happens. The young woman glances straight at him and though her smile dims slightly, she does not seem at all surprised by his presence. “Perhaps you can teach them a thing or two.”

To his surprise, Bran finds himself saying, in a voice that is not his own, “That would be cheating.”

“It’s not cheating if we already know about it,” the pale young man says as he sheathes his longsword. He throws his sparring companion a smile that Bran certainly cannot interpret, and the bearded young man chuckles in response, shaking his head. The taller one then walks over to where the young woman sits and she tilts the sword she is holding up to him, grip first. He carefully takes hold of it, clearly wary of the sharp edges against the woman’s hands, and quietly tests the weight and balance of it in his hand. “One of your better ones, I think.”

“I’ve seen him fight,” the other man says, glancing in Bran’s--or whoever’s body he is possessing’s--direction. “It would be cheating. You can’t win against someone with that sort of knowledge.”

Bran feels his lips tilt up into a smile but even he can sense that it is half-hearted.

 _This is a memory_ , Bran thinks. But whose? The thick copse of weirwoods is a place completely unfamiliar to him, even though he supposes that it must be somewhere in the North--as far as he knows, nowhere south of the Neck has such a dense godswood. But there is something about the pale man and the blond woman that strikes him as foreign--perhaps it is the exotic tilt of their noses or their high cheekbones or the litheness of their long-limbed grace. And the bearded young man...no, he clearly has the look of a northerner about him but there is something about the way he speaks, the way all of them speak that still unsettles him, tickling at the back of his mind…

“Do you think you can take on both of us at the same time?” the pale man suddenly asks. The young woman glances up at him, her smile widening slightly. The young man who looks like a northerner rubs at his face, looking a little more cautious at the prospect, but there is a glint of excitement in his eyes. The pale man gestures with the dark sword in his hand. “You can even use her sword, if you’re worried that _that_ might make us go easy on you.” He nods at something strapped to Bran’s side.

Bran wants to look down, wants to see what in the world they are talking about, but the man whose body he inhabits only shakes his head. “It would not be wise, I think.”

“Brandon, help me out here,” the pale man says, pointing the tip of the sword into the ground and leaning into it, even as the young woman shoots him a look of clear annoyance, her mirth gone. But Bran only barely notices it, too stunned upon hearing his own name fall from the stranger’s lips--and even more stunned when the bearded young man lets out a sigh of acquiescence. 

_Bran_.

“I’d rather not go up against two thousand years of experience,” the northman-- _Brandon_ , and isn’t that as wildly confusing as anything--says, nodding in Bran’s direction with an easy smile. “I mean you no offense, friend, but that hardly seems like a fair fight.”

 _Two_ thousand _years…?_

_The wars between the First Men and the Children ended long before the Night King turned against them…_

"You say that and it feels like a challenge." He can feel the smile in his voice, feels his hand move towards the grip of the sword at his side. And Bran sees that the hand is human, completely and utterly human. But there is something else, something that catches his eye on the cuff of his--no, the man’s--black shirt. It is a sigil, he thinks. A House sigil. A circle of some sort.

No.

Not a circle.

A _spiral_.

 _I know that symbol_ , Bran thinks numbly, even as the body he is watching this memory through moves further into the clearing. Vaguely, he remembers the ease and strength of power, of a warrior, that he had felt when he had momentarily inhabited Rhaegar’s body in that brief instance before Robert killed him. This feels eerily similar--the same predatory prowess, the grace of a fighter, the assured strength of someone who knows their skills and knows it well.

_Bran!_

And when the man falls into a fighting stance, Bran sees the two young men opposite of him again--the northerner and the foreigner. Just beyond, the young woman, her fingers smudged with oil, a smile on her face.

_I know these names...don’t I?_

If he concentrates, he can almost see it...another memory rises in front of him, a double image and so much blurrier than the others...as if the man with the spiral sigil on his sleeve could no longer tell the two apart...

The pale foreigner, his face streaked in dirt and gore and blood, standing before him, his dark eyes fierce and grieving and terrible...and as fiery as the blazing sword of fire in his hands...

The bearded northerner, older now, more solemn, his gray-blue eyes the same color as the massive wall of ice in front of him, still nowhere near the heights it would gain in the years to come...

And the young woman, her hair an unholy red-gold in the glow of a forge, frowning as she examines the intricate designs embedded into the hilt of a sword of legend...

_Night gathers and now my watch begins...I am the sword in the darkness...the watcher on the walls...that fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men…_

_For this night and all nights to come._

Fire. Ice. Lightbringer.

He can hear a doomed young Dornishwoman’s voice in his head then: _the dragon must have three heads_.

 _What does it mean_ , Bran thinks wildly as the memory fades into fire and darkness. The only thing he can see now is that sword, that sword of fire, blazing in a shadow’s hand in the ruins of the Wall. The shadows of the world are waking up and he can see them--he can _sense_ them: from the dry and barren wastes of Essos to the unfathomable depths of the uncharted seas to the frozen shores of the lands of always winter, farther than any living man has ever traveled.

Any _living_ man…

_It was a memory. A memory of a man, a spiral, the spiral of the Walkers, the man who...who…_

“Bran!”

He jolts awake so violently that the world spins at a nauseating speed, blind and lost and sickened from the sheer force of it. Around him is darkness, sheer darkness--no...no. Not the darkness of his dream. It is the simple darkness of twilight, permeated by the torches held by the two men in front of him. Podrick Payne kneels by his chair, a worried light in his eyes as he holds a steady hand on Bran’s shoulder. On the other side of him, Samwell Tarly has a matching expression of pale concern, exacerbated by the glow of the flames.

 _Just like the sword_ , Bran thinks in confusion. The images of his dream stay with him, branded on him like a bruise or like the Night King’s marking. _It wasn’t a vision. It was a memory. A dream._ But it was real. He knows it was real. Wasn’t it? 

“Lightbringer,” he murmurs distractedly, almost missing the disquieted looks that Sam and Podrick exchange. “It’s Lightbringer.”

“Bran, what are you talking about?” Sam says quietly. Bran shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts of the stabbing pain that echoes through him. The Sight is still gone. So how did he see that without the stranger’s assistance? What did it mean?

“It was at the Wall this entire time,” he says, mostly to himself. “It was buried at the Wall. They knew each other. They were…” Friends? No, no--that doesn’t sound right. More than allies, more than friends--he knows this. He doesn’t know how he knows but he is sure of it.

“My lord?” This time it is Pod who prods him, his brows knotted with unease.

“He has the sword.” Bran finally looks up, looking into both of their faces. From the uncomprehending looks on both of their faces, he knows that he is making little sense to them. Gods, he doesn’t know if he is making sense to _himself_. “Jon has Lightbringer.”

Pod frowns at this declaration while Sam blinks. “Lightbringer? Stannis’s sword?” When Bran only shakes his head, unsure of how to explain it, Sam looks ready to ask him a thousand different questions at once. Somehow he settles for the most damning one. “Does this mean you have your Sight back?”

Again, Bran shakes his head. “No. No, it was--” A dream. A memory. “--it was something else. But I _know_ it was real. They’re waking from the earth.” He hesitates again, thinking about the words that have been quietly ghosting through his thoughts. Words that make little sense to him, words that he never would have needed to say aloud...because he is not a brother of the Night’s Watch. 

And with that, he blinks in dumbfounded realization, suddenly feeling as stupid as he did whenever it came to his feelings towards Meera. “Sam. Sam, you’re in the Night’s Watch.” Sam flushes.

“Insofar as that means anything nowadays.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Bran says with a little more impatience than he intends. From the looks that Sam and Pod keep exchanging between themselves, as if Bran cannot obviously see them, makes him realize that they must think he has clearly lost his mind. But how to explain everything? How to explain this? “The oath of the Night’s Watch. What is it?”

“The oath?” A befuddled look of concentration crosses Sam’s face. “Oh. Oh, it’s...right. _Night gathers and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post_ .” He hesitates but Bran gestures for him to continue. Sam sighs. “ _I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for the night and all nights to come_.”

Bran closes his eyes. That can’t be it. There must be more. He thinks back on the young man with the fiery sword. He thinks of the northerner--another Brandon, a _Stark_ \--standing in front of the Wall, older, wiser, battle-worn and weary. And there is the oath, a promise, a memory--and the sword, buried within the mass of ice, that could only be retrieved once the spells came undone and the Wall itself came thundering down and the oath itself was broken.

The fire that burns against the cold, the horn that wakes the sleepers...

The light that brings the dawn.

“There’s more to it than that,” Bran murmurs. “It changed from what it originally was. Why did they change it? Why did they forget?” Ignoring the looks that Sam and Pod are still exchanging, he looks out towards the wolfswood, blue-gray shadows in the ever-present snowstorm, and further north still where the Wall once was. Where Jon _is_.

A shadow holding a sword of fire.

“Bran, should we get Sansa?”

“No. No, it’s fine.” It really isn’t. But if there is anyone who understands the lore and myths and legends of the Night’s Watch, it will be Samwell Tarly. Bran sighs, throwing his head back to glare up at the overhang. 

_Talk to the Tarly man. And the boy, the brother of winter...and the woman of the red god...they will know, they will understand._

Gods, next time he sees the stranger, he might just strangle him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over. Degree obtained. Back to your regularly scheduled program (or as regularly as I can make these updates, good grief).
> 
> Next chapter: The Proxy, as we head back to Storm's End for a Dad-vos POV.


	31. The Proxy

A damp and chilly dawn rises as gray and foreboding as it has for weeks and weeks now, that same sort of wet cold that sinks into a person’s bones and reaches down their throat to draw up a rattling furious cough. The lowlands and stony ridges of the Red Mountains just west and north of Durran’s Point are shrouded in mists so thick that in some locations, it is difficult to distinguish the land from the sky, the horizon a blurry and intangible thing.

Davos frowns at the stormlands from where he stands at the exposed topmost part of Storm’s End main--and only--tower. The salty gusts blowing in off of Shipbreaker Bay are stronger up here, carrying with them the sound of gulls and the crash of waves behind him as they angrily break against the cliffs, as if chasing him on his way. He and Kinvara and Daario are supposed to leave shortly for King’s Landing and for some inexplicable reason, the weather has created a tiny knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It is odd, because he has traveled in less extreme weather than this--even with the dank chill, the journey to King’s Landing should be a relatively swift and straightforward one.

Still, Davos thinks, suppressing a wince, that depends on if they will be at the mercy of any more bizarre snowstorms. Those storms have put off a trip back to King’s Landing for nearly a fortnight. He has sent ravens to the capital to explain the predicament (a brief memory of standing in the rookery, ink staining his fingers, and no memory as to how he got there and he quickly buries the thought) but doubts the message has been received. Who is in King’s Landing to receive ravens, after all? Daenerys will be too busy trying to rule. Even with Jon and Tyrion and her armies at her disposal, is there really anyone to act as a courier or maester to her? He wonders if the young woman had ever thought beyond the conquest part of her dream.

_Winning was easy. Ruling is harder._

Davos sighs, placing his palms flat against the low barrier of the crenel. At one point, after the battle against the dead, he thought that perhaps once Daenerys had claimed her throne, he would be able to sail for home once and for all. The alternative was that Cersei would win and behead them all but either choice would’ve meant an end to his adventures. Instead, he finds himself embroiled back into the murky world of politics, trying to push these young men and women into directions that won’t damn the entire kingdom to hell. It is a role he still feels ill-suited for, even after all of these years.

And gods, when was the last time he saw his wife?

He thinks of Marya now--and the son he lost so many years ago on the Blackwater. They were never even able to grieve together. Devotion and respect prevented him from leaving Stannis’s side and once Stannis fell...well, there was something about Jon (and later on, when he found him again, Gendry) that kept him rooted with the northern forces. For nearly a decade now, there has been no respite from danger, from death, from duty. And now, at the end of it all, Davos simply wants to go _home_.

He rubs at his beard with his maimed hand as he turns towards the stairwell, even as the sun, hidden behind a thick cloud cover, brightens the stormlands from dark gray to...mildly less gray. There really is no use thinking about it now. Perhaps once this is over--and gods how many times has he said or thought that within the past several years--he will return home. Kiss his wife. Make love to her. A part of him, though, believes that his luck can only run so far and there is a good chance he might get an arrow in his heart soon for all his troubles. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end?

The courtyard below is already busy with activity when Davos reaches it, despite the hour. Jurne had mentioned some time earlier that the storms were likely to cause some of the common folk to seek refuge within the walls of Storm’s End and his prediction has proven true. While most stormlanders decided to hunker down in their homes, quite a few had chosen to wait out the worst of the snowstorms with more people (and more food). It has been Gendry’s first real and unexpected test as Lord Baratheon and, to everyone’s surprise, he has been handling it with far more deftness than anyone expected. But Davos is not surprised--making do and rationing and dealing with a riotous mixture of personalities and tempers and fears was daily life in Flea Bottom. And working in a shop required equal measures of empathy and sternness, a knowledge of when to speak, when to listen, and when to call someone out on their bullshit.

Davos sees Gendry now, already awake and speaking with the master of horse. It has been some time since Davos has been acquainted with the Baratheon household at Storm’s End and the men currently taking the lead are mostly strangers to him--they had been mere boys-in-training last he had known them. But their predecessors, old men who had taken the place of men in their prime who had gone off to war with Stannis or younger men who had been swept up in the political machinations between Lannister and Tyrell and Baratheon, are all gone. The world, with its magic and politics, apparently has moved into the hands of those who had come of age in the midst of strife and hardship, thrust into roles vacated by men killed by sickness and war and winter.

Gendry spots him only a few moments after he comes into the courtyard and claps the master of horse on the shoulder before making his way over. “Didn’t think you’d be one to sleep in.” Davos smiles briefly.

“I was up top,” he says, glancing upwards towards where the drum tower looms behind them. “Figured I could see what we were facing before we left.”

“Wish I was coming with you,” Gendry says with more than a little reluctance, as the horses that Davos, Kinvara, and Daario will be riding are saddled and bridled. 

Davos grimaces. Words and winter, heat and anger--this is familiar territory. “Best you aren’t. There’s already enough trouble in the capital without you adding to it.”

“What makes you think I’d add to it?”

“You don’t think I know what words you have for the queen?” Davos watches as Gendry’s jaw clenches and he sighs. Perhaps it had been too much to suppose that in the two weeks since his arrival that the ire Gendry has towards his benefactor, the woman who legitimized him and gave him a House and a title, would fade. But then again, it must still be a particularly stinging mark, the double blow of the destruction of his former home and the fact that the young woman he loves has a death sentence over her head. “You’ve already made it clear that you want to squabble with her.”

Gendry scowls. “Squabble,” he echoes, before looking around to make sure none of the Baratheon household is within listening distance. “You make it sound like it’s a small thing what she’s done. The smallfolk weren’t a threat to her. Someone needs to hold her responsible.”

 _And you think that someone is you_ , Davos thinks but does not speak those words aloud. Instead he says, “I know that it’s difficult to understand. Even more difficult to explain, truth be told.” 

He thinks briefly of the shattered look in Daenerys’s eyes before his journey, as if the world itself had come crumbling down around her. In a way, it had. _She is going to be held responsible by her own bloody conscience for the rest of her life_. He sighs and continues, “Trust me when I say that no one thinks that she is getting off easy for what she’s done.”

Unsurprisingly, that does not placate Gendry. He turns away from Davos, a stormy and frustrated look in his eyes.

“And what about Arry? I supposed to forget that the queen wants her head?”

Words and winter. Heat and anger.

Davos is not surprised that little kernel of knowledge has been smoldering within Gendry’s chest for a fortnight now. They've not discussed it beyond that mere mention upon his arrival--mostly because Gendry had remained stubbornly tight-lipped about it and Davos hadn’t felt it was his place to pry more than necessary. He has already given the young man his best advice--to think about the smallfolk who now look to him as lord rather than his own wants and desires. Judging from the tone in his voice, it is not something so easily remembered and Davos wonders what would come of it if the young Stark woman showed up at Storm’s End, sharp-eyed and unrepentant, the storm lord’s heart already in her hands. And gods even know if the feeling is reciprocated--that is an entirely unknown variable that Davos doesn’t dare contemplate. 

That’s not even to mention if Jon knows.

“I can’t give you an answer to that,” Davos replies quietly. “You’ll have to make up your mind if you come to that crossroads.”

Gendry glances at Davos, a frown on his face. “I’ve told you my answer. You already know.”

“No I don’t,” After giving the young man a pointed look, Davos begins to walk towards the saddled horses. _And it is best kept that way so that you don’t bring a storm on your head,_ are his unspoken words. After all, Daenerys will want to know if the stormlands are dependably on the side of the crown if and when she declares against the North (gods, he still hopes that it is an “if” and not a “when”). The less he pretends to know about Gendry’s probable intentions, the better. He can be angry, yes. Surely the dragon queen will expect it...but she will also expect duty and gratitude to override that anger.

It is not news he is looking forward to delivering.

A light snow has already begun to fall and he prays the shadows to the far north do not promise a stronger storm before they can even reach Bronzegate. He is just beginning to pull his gloves on when he hears a booming voice shout his name from the entrance of the castle from clear across the bailey. There is only one person he knows in Storm’s End with the lung capacity to be heard from that distance, and so when he turns it is with a faint smile on his face. He sees Farring stride across the busy courtyard, trailed by the eastern sellsword and the red priestess--a detail that causes his smile to dip just slightly.

The sellsword--Daario--has somehow made himself both beloved by the Baratheon household (namely those of the female persuasion) while becoming an annoyance to the rest (namely the husbands and brothers and sons and fathers of the former). A combination of a devil-may-care attitude, a rakish grin in a handsome face, and the mere idea that the man is far more clever than he lets on means that more than a few arguments have been started because of (and sometimes by) him. Davos has only been in the man’s presence for a fortnight and is not sure whether he admires the man or wants to strangle him--and he is still not sure who made the final decision of sending a man with a romantic history with the queen to the capital with him.

But the sellsword’s presence unnerves him far less than that of the red priestess. He cannot read her, not like he could Melisandre. As she approaches, Davos is surprised to see that she is no longer wearing the crimson fabrics of her faith. Instead, she has dressed in a simple brown tunic and riding breeches, a hooded black cloak gracing her slim shoulders. He briefly recalls Melisandre riding out of the darkness the night that the Night King attacked Winterfell, a ruby sparkling at her throat, the blood-red hues of her dress shockingly apparent in the light of hundreds of flaming torches and swords.

The priestess catches his eyes as she nears and she smiles, nodding her head at him. “Ser Davos.”

Davos says nothing to her, only nods a cool but polite greeting in response. Her words to Gendry so many days ago still unsettle him--not because of the confirmation of something he had long suspected but because she had known in the first place, had known something to be amiss in the capital. And to say that the Long Night has only briefly paused, that they are to be thrown headlong into the darkness again…

Unholy screams in the night. Hundreds--no, thousands--of blue eyes glowing in pitch darkness, the ground rumbling with the sound of their approach. And overhead, a dragon shrieking in a rage and with blue fire colder than the winds of winter themselves...

A rookery and ink on his fingers, gaps in his memory where no gaps should have been...

_The darkness has already touched you as well, my lord. I can sense ice in your soul._

What had he written? And whom had he sent a message to?

As if she can read Davos’s mind, Kinvara’s polite smile becomes a shade sadder and she turns away as Gendry approaches. The look the young lord gives the red priestess is one full of wariness and skepticism--gods only know what in the world has passed between them for him to view her that way--and there is only so much distance he seems to be willing to close between them. Davos decides it is best left answered another day and he turns towards Farring instead. “Can you manage to make sure this castle doesn’t fall into the bay while I’m gone?”

Farring’s grin is white and wide beneath his beard. “Better than the old man leaving. Are you sure you don’t need a guide to help you find your way back, Uncle Onion?”

“I’ll just follow the smoke. Sure it won’t be too long before you set something ablaze.” Farring’s boisterous laughter fills the bailey and Davos sees that even Gendry and Kinvara slightly smile at the big man’s mirth. Davos checks the sack of provisions tied to his horse’s saddle to make sure it is secure before fixing Farring with another look, nodding in Gendry’s direction. In a low voice, he says, “Before you burn this place down, make sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Farring’s laughter dies down to a simple chuckle and he shakes his head. “He’s smarter than he lets on. The people here love him, even Jurne. He’s got something of Robert and Renly in him.”

Davos laughs quietly. “Not Stannis, eh?”

“People were loyal to Stannis. But they didn’t love him.” At Davos’s silence, Farring crosses his arms, a fleeting smile crossing his face. “That’s not a knock against any of those men who fought for him, Uncle Onion. My mother told me to never talk badly about the dead. Sometimes men believe in a cause more than they believe in the man wielding the cause, because they believe the cause is just and righteous. And sometimes men believe in the man more than they believe in the cause, because they believe the man is just and righteous. Who’s to say which one is better or...worse?”

How many had died during Stannis’s failed and disastrous campaign for the thrones because they believed him to be the rightful ruler? How many more had died during the queen’s maddened blitz of King’s Landing, because someone else believed her to be a chosen one? Perhaps there are people who had not loved the Lannister dynasty or the cruelty of its members...but they had believed in the right of rulership, regardless of the rumors of incest or the destruction of the Great Sept? And perhaps Davos is not the most politically-savvy person in Westeros but if the knowledge of a Targaryen heir’s identity spread, a scion of the north and the south, a battle-tested commander and war hero and a born-and-bred Westerosi...he already knows, already fears for it, and gods help the Seven Kingdoms for what they would do to place him on the throne.

“And what do you make of Gendry then?” Davos asks, glancing over his shoulder to the man in question who is chatting amicably with Daario. Farring smiles.

“Like I said, he’s a good lad.” He follows Davos’s gaze. “Broody sometimes but trying to do good. He’s got no tact, none of that refinement that comes with being born a lord. That helps. I think being a bastard for so long was good for him. It means he was low enough to see the worst that lords can do to the smallfolk and now he’s high enough to do something about it.”

Those words stick with him, even as he mounts up alongside Kinvara and Daario and Gendry approaches him to say farewell. “You’ll be back, won’t you?”

“Soon as this mess is taken care of in the capital, I hope.” Davos sees Gendry hesitate for a moment and then quietly asks, “You’ll remember what I’ve said? About what you need to do and what you want to do?”

A troubled look crosses Gendry’s face and for a moment, Davos worriedly thinks that he is going to argue with him. But instead Gendry nods, even though the troubled light does not go out in his eyes. “Aye. Aye, I’ll think about it.”

“Suppose that’s the most I can ask for.” Davos nods back at Farring. “Make sure this one doesn’t push you around too much. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Even as he turns his horse in the direction of the main gate, he can hear Farring let out a snort. “When you can drink the ale here, then maybe I’ll listen to you.”

Dawn is well on its way to brightening the early morning sky into a paler gray hue, rimmed by the darkening clouds in the direction they are headed. Behind him, he can hear the faint thunderous crash of the waves against the cliffs of Durran’s Point, along with the piercing cries of swooping gulls. The winds blowing in off of Shipbreaker Bay, along with the lazy light fall of snow, has made Davos very thankful that Maester Jurne had taken one look at the traveling group’s cloaks, frowned, and then heavily suggested that they trade in their cloaks for something of a sturdier and heavier weave. Davos, still unnerved by the incessant and thick fall of snow so far south of the Neck, had agreed. To his surprise, the priestess had as well.

She rides alongside him now, the fur-trimmed hood of her cloak pulled and encompassing her pale face. The sellsword is slightly behind--he had initially scoffed at the idea of replacing his traveling cloak with one of Westerosi fashion but had finally relented when Farring mentioned, on numerous occasions and in increasingly louder tones, of freezing his Tyroshi balls off and making all of the women in Westeros think he is a eunuch. Rather than become irritated, Daario had simply laughed and acquiesced. 

_That one is one to keep an eye on_ , Davos thinks as Storm’s End is swallowed up in the mists and fog behind them.

As if on cue, Daario says, “So it’s Bronzegate we’re headed to. From there how far is it to King’s Landing?”

“It should be a four day’s journey, if the weather holds.” The darkening clouds ahead of them say that there is a very good chance that it won’t. “The south usually doesn’t see storms like this so I can’t say how long we’ll be at Bronzegate. But I’m sure you’ll find the hospitality there unmatched.”

“Hm.” Daario glances about him, at the rolling hills and the ridges, all encompassed in a silvery-white mist, the snow thin but spreading as far as the eye can see--the clopping of the horses’ steps is smothered into only a faint crunch of snow underfoot. “I’m not concerned about this famed Westerosi hospitality. There seemed to be plenty of it at your stone fortress. If the rest of this kingdom is so welcoming, I’ll preach Westeros’s hospitality from Braavos to the brothels of Asshai.” 

Davos is quiet for a moment. And then, “I’ve never seen a man so interested in returning to a woman who rejected him.”

“What makes you think she rejected me?”

“Most women who travel halfway across the world and leave a lover behind would call that rejection.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Davos can see a faint smile flit across the priestess’s face.

Daario, for his part, actually chuckles and brings his horse up to a trot so that he is alongside Davos and Kinvara. “Suppose there’s no use arguing against that. I begged her to take me with her. She gave me a duty of watching over Meereen like a wet nurse. Well, I’ve done my duty. The Meereenese have their rulers and the people are as dissatisfied as they were before. The Bay of Dragons hails Daenerys Stormborn’s name from Tolos to Astapor and then goes about life as if she is nothing more than a memory. So here I come to beg her once again to take me by her side. Now that she has her throne, she’ll need all the swords she can get to keep it.”

 _Too true_. “You don’t strike me as an altruistic man,” Davos notes, giving the sellsword a long look. “I doubt that you’d be satisfied with just staying by her side with a sword.”

“By her side, in her bed--I’ve told her it doesn’t matter.”

“I see that you don’t have a good grasp on how politics work.”

“I have a good grasp on how women work.”

“Daenerys Stormborn is not like any other woman.” Both men turn towards Kinvara who keeps her eyes straight ahead on the road. The smile that had been on her face has vanished. “She birthed fire back into the world when the world had forgotten what fire made flesh truly was. She has brought great cities to kneel. She faced a great other, a king of night and winter, and sacrificed one of her children to do so. Most mothers--most women--cannot say the same.”

 _A great other. Not_ the _Great Other_. Davos grimaces at the words but Daario seems unbothered by them. “I’m not a particularly religious man but even I know that Daenerys is no ordinary woman.” He shrugs and then glances back at Davos. “I told her once that she was ill-suited for sitting on a throne made of iron swords. That she is a conqueror above else. Tell me truly--is she happy now that all of her dreams have come true?”

Again, it is not the first time that Davos regrets the man’s presence, let alone what it portends for what will happen once they reach the capital. The glib smile and easygoing nature hide a cunning mind sharper than obsidian, as if the man treats every conversation like a battle, looking for chinks in armor or a physical weakness to exploit. Clearly the queen had trusted him enough to leave him and his band of sellswords in charge of enforcing a peace in a city she had conquered...but she had not trusted--or loved--him enough to bring him with her on her conquest of Westeros. There clearly had been good reason to do so.

And what to say of her happiness? Davos has not seen her smile in months--and he suspects that Daario’s appearance will not be the source of its resurrection.

Once again, it is Kinvara who saves him from answering. “The queen is battling demons all around her--and it is no surprise. Around the world, people believe the darkness has passed, that their great struggles are behind them. And yet unprecedented storms have arrived to steal away their peace of mind. From Winterfell to the Summer Islands to Ibben to Asshai, people look to the skies in confusion and they murmur.”

“People always murmur,” Daario counters. “One could say that murmuring is what they are best at.”

Kinvara smiles but there is no mirth to it. “Do you not believe in the Great Other and an eternal night, Daario Naharis?”

“Oh, I believe in a great many things.” He winks at Davos. “Don’t you, Ser Onion?”

_I saw a vision in the flames. A great battle in the snow...when you see the truth when it’s right there in front of you, as real as these iron bars..._

He had believed in Stannis. Even before Melisandre put the words of destiny and prophecy in his head, Davos had believed Stannis to be a just man, a man who would have made a great king. But it had been for nothing that hundreds and hundreds of men had died--during the war, on the Blackwater, in the North. And once Stannis’s cause had gone up in flames, the man abandoned on all sides by everyone and everything that had followed him down into hell, Davos had believed in the young Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the solemn-eyed young man brought back to life by the Red God. Perhaps Melisandre had never seen it truly. Perhaps Kinvara speaks the truth saying that the Stark girl never should’ve been the one to kill the Night King.

Perhaps, maybe...

Davos shakes his head, contemplating the question for a second more before saying, “Yes...and no. I’ve _seen_ a great many things, too many things that defy explanation and sense. Seems as if it doesn’t matter what I believe or who I believe in--something or someone always comes along to tell me I was wrong or misguided.”

“Misinformed,” Kinvara says quietly. Her horse seems to nicker in agreement. “I have told you as much. Melony took it upon herself to force her misconceptions upon people who, no matter how good and righteous their claims or goals were, could not and should not have done what needed to be done. I will not question her faith--even the most devout of the Lord’s followers can make mistakes. But, even with her meddling, it does not change the fact that everything that has happened has happened for reason and by the will of the Lord.”

_I've heard that too many times before, from another mouth, from another person who believed just as you, no matter how much you deny it._

Daario lets out a low whistle beneath his breath. Davos says, “Not to be that person, my lady, but you can’t have it both ways. Either it was a mistake what she did or it wasn’t. It can’t be both an accident and the will of your god.”

The priestess gives him an appraising look. She is silent for so long that Davos wonders if she has ceded the point until she asks, “You had a son, didn’t you, Ser Davos?”

Even now, even here, years and years later and with dozens upon dozens of losses etched in his memory, his heart still spasms with grief. He knows he cannot keep the grimace of pain from crossing his face but he keeps his eyes ahead on the road so he does not see the understanding confirmation in Kinvara’s eyes or the curiosity in Daario’s. He hears Kinvara quietly say, “I am sorry for your loss, ser. It is no easy thing to outlive a child. But as a father, even as much as you loved your son, you knew that you could not always protect him, that he would sometimes make decisions that you deemed foolish or wrong. As a father, you knew you had to let him make his own mistakes. Perhaps it is not what you wanted but you allowed it--it was your will that your son grew and learned from those errors.”

“Never known the gods to give a shit about whether or not people learn from their mistakes,” Daario comments offhandedly. “Actually, I’ve never known the gods to give a shit at all.”

If Kinvara is irritated by Daario’s interruption, she does not show it. Instead she glances up at the sky and the light fall of snow that surrounds them, a frown on her face. “Melony once believed that Stannis Baratheon was born amidst salt and smoke to be Azor Ahai reborn. She was mistaken and it was the mistake of a human woman that led to that would-be-king’s downfall, not the Lord of Light’s. The one whose name shall not be spoken--the Great Other--rises with the cold winds of winter and brings the night and death. And it is only with fire that the Great Other can be defeated. And a stag, while a great and powerful king of the forest, is not fire made flesh.”

The Red God and the Great Other. Fire and ice. Two sides of the same coin.

 _So even if it is not a Baratheon or Stark, it is still a title of destiny someone must wear like a goddamned crown_. Davos rubs at his face...and it is only then that he notices the contemplative frown on Daario’s face. Despite himself, he chuckles. “It sounds like bullshit, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve heard stranger stories,” Daario responds thoughtfully. And truly, he doesn’t look perturbed by the priestess’s words. “If dragons can be reborn into the world, why not a...what was it, a Great Other? The winds of winter? Death and night and all of that?”

_Only death can pay for life._

It is now Davos who frowns. He supposes he never thought of it that way. From what he has understood from Jon and the omnipotent being who wears the face of his cousin, the Night King himself had been a creature centuries old...but it hadn’t been until he started making his way to the Wall for the first time in apparently eight thousand years that Daenerys Targaryen had birthed three dragons, beasts long thought extinct in the world. Creatures of legend, creatures whose blood was an anathema to ice...just like the Night King himself was the perfect balance to creatures born of fire.

Coincidence? Davos thinks not.

In his mind’s eye, he can see the coin flipping and flipping over and over again. Two sides of the same coin.

Fire and ice.

But he says nothing and silence falls between the three of them for some time. Davos is secretly relieved that the storm to the north seems to be moving at a snail’s pace--his worry that it would overtake them on the road quickly becomes an unfounded concern. From what he is able to gauge of the storm’s movement, it will at least arrive at some point while they are at Bronzegate. Depending on the severity of it (and he is hoping that there is at least some normalcy in that, that perhaps there is something of the old weather patterns in the stormlands and the crownlands that will hold), they will most likely reach King’s Landing in less than four days. Then perhaps he can finally pull Jon aside before the newest red priestess can get a hold of him and finally speak with him truthfully.

As the snow continues to lazily fall, coating their cloaks and the manes of the horses in white fluff, Davos wonders how far south the storm has moved. Ravens had never arrived from the Citadel proclaiming that spring had arrived and in all of Davos’s years, winter south of the Necks usually only meant fierce storms that brought ice and hail but rarely snow that stuck. He supposes if they hear that Dorne itself, with its arid summers and cool winters, is also experiencing this peculiar storm, it will draw more than the murmurs Kinvara spoke of.

It is mid-afternoon by the time the extremities of the stormlands start to mellow into the rolling hills just south of the kingswood where Bronzegate sits. Davos glances about him--the weather has been on their side. He estimates that they should arrive at Bronzegate within the next three hours. But there is something odd about this quiet trip from Storm’s End that unsettles him, something he cannot quite place his finger on--and it is not simply the peculiar company he is keeping.

It is Daario who finally voices it though. “Is it usually this quiet on your roads? Figured we would have at least come across one other traveler heading south.”

They hadn’t. Not once since they had departed Storm’s End. And it is odd because surely there would be someone taking advantage of the literal calm before the storm?

Something tingles at the back of Davos’s neck.

Kinvara looks around at the silent snow-covered landscape and the great oaks that are haphazardly littered across the softly rolling hills. Her eyes narrow and she seems to be contemplating something, the light in her eyes shrewd but wary.

Finally, she says, “Tell me, Ser Davos--what was it that led to the battle in Winterfell?”

It...is not a question he expects. “A strange question,” he replies cautiously. “Isn’t that something you saw in your fires?”

“I have my suspicions but I would rather hear it from you, ser. A great other brought the dead to Winterfell. Why did he not swell his army to the south first?” 

Davos sees that her posture is suddenly erect and alert, her pale blue eyes sharply looking over the quietly-empty hills as if searching for something. Daario too must have noticed the change in her because he is doing the same, though his manner is more relaxed, more casual. But even as the tingle at the back of Davos’s neck starts to feel like ice, he does not miss the way Davos’s hand moves to the arakh at his side.

“Bran Stark was there. The Night King wanted him dead.”

“Who told you that?” Kinvara asks at the same time Daario interjects: “Why?”

“Bran told us. He’s the memory of mankind, the Three-Eyed Raven.” He pauses and for Daario’s benefit adds, “Bran is the only surviving...legitimate son of House Stark. The Starks are sworn allies to House Targaryen.”

 _At least one of them is_ , Davos thinks to himself, willing himself not to look in Kinvara’s direction. From her words a fortnight ago, he already suspects that she must know whom the other Targaryen--a child of fire--must be. _And gods only knew the extent of the fallout from the North and House Stark if Sansa and Bran decide to declare war against the woman who sentenced their sister to death._

The sellsword snorts, breaking into Davos’s thoughts. “Too bad your miniature god couldn’t have given you lot a warning years ago. Might have saved you some time with this great battle.” Davos can only shake his head.

“The lad wasn’t around years ago. He went beyond the Wall and apparently learned his powers there before he came home.” 

Daario shakes his head. “Hmph. So he goes beyond the Wall, learns some new tricks from gods only knows who, comes back different, and tells you all everything you thought you needed to hear. Sounds like a spy to me.”

_A spy…?_

He remembers then, the night before a battle, standing around the table, surrounded by faces of those who would be dead by morning, faces of those too impossibly young...and the face of one, implacable calm, eyes dark and unreadable, a stranger in a boy’s body, telling them how they needed to act in a steady and emotionless voice...

_No. We need to lure him into the open before his army destroys us all. I’ll wait for him in the godswood._

Davos reins in his horse so sharply that the animal snorting in annoyance. Daario pauses too, turning his horse back towards Davos--there is an easy smile on his face though his brow is cocked in bemusement and his hand has not moved from where it hovers near the handle of his arakh. Kinvara slows her own courser to a halt as well.

“What you said,” Davos says slowly. “About Bran Stark..."

“A spy. You do know what that is, don’t you?” When Davos doesn’t answer, Daario grins. “Someone wearing the face of a friend--or an ally, as you say--joins your group, tells you something that can’t be verified as true but you trust him because of who he says he is or promised to be. Even a novice sellsword infiltrates an army with more than that. Don’t tell me you based an entire military strategy on the word of a stranger?”

At Davos’s continued silence, Daario gives him an incredulous look. “Good gods.” He spins his horse back around with a sigh. “If these are the sorts of allies Daenerys has found herself with, she needs all the help she can get.”

Davos can only watch as the sellsword rides on ahead, leaving him in the presence of the red priestess, who is watching him with wide blue eyes beneath the fur-trimmed brim of her hood. His own thoughts are a swirling maelstrom-- _he Starks would have no reason not to trust one of their own and a weapon of that great power, to see anything and everything, to know anything and everything...it is unthinkable_ \--and it is only then that he realizes that the snow is starting to fall down more heavily, obscuring the far distance in a curtain of white.

He finally meets Kinvara’s eyes and cannot help the accusatory note that is woven through his voice. “Is that what you meant? When you told Gendry that the Raven was a tool of the old gods?”

Kinvara sighs. “You think it is because of vanity that I speak in riddles and metaphors, that I only wish to heighten the mystery of the Lord. But I will not lead you down the same destructive path as Melony. I will truthfully tell you that the fires must sometimes be left to interpretation but I have not traveled so far to send you on fool’s quest, to lead Daenerys Stormborn into further darkness. No, the ones reborn in fire will suffer in darkness long enough even without my warning.”

A fool’s quest. “So your riddles are benevolent then?”

“Summer dies, Ser Davos,” Kinvara says, blue eyes luminous. “Autumn dies. Winter itself is death. Only spring and the longing for it are eternal. There is nothing I want more than to keep the night of the wild and the fell creatures of winter that the Great Other brings at the brink. I understand why you are mistrustful of me--I cannot blame you for it. But at least know that I will only ever speak honestly to you about my intentions.”

“Why is it so important to you to bring down the old gods?”

It is then that he notices the strain around Kinvara’s mouth. For once, he can see the tired frustration in her expression and it is enough to make him stop short, almost enough to make him regret the heat in his tone.

“Oh, Ser Davos. What ever made you think that Red God is also not one of the old gods?” Before Davos can reply, Kinvara tightens her grip on the reins and says, “Come. I am afraid we must continue on straight to King’s Landing. There is nothing by darkness here in the stormlands. The sleepers are already awakening and they will turn their eyes to Bronzegate before long.”

And then she is gone, riding into the dense curtain of snow towards the shrinking figure of a Tyroshi sellsword. Davos hesitates for only a moment.

A spy. An old god.

A flipping coin.

What in the world, he thinks, is awaiting them in the capital?

If he concentrates too hard, he can almost feel eyes on him from across the hills.

_Only death can pay for life._

With a shake of his head, Davos clears his thoughts and then gallops off after his companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to “Cabinet Battle #1”
> 
> The variation of Kinvara’s “summer dies” quote comes from Valentin Kataev’s “My Diamond Crown” and a whole lot of TWS GIF sets.  
> In honor of a milestone, I have updated the chapter count for this fic. When I say this fic is a beast, I mean it - this will most definitely be on par with one of the books in terms of word count.
> 
> Next chapter: The Pretender


	32. The Pretender

The blizzard that arrives that night is the first warning.

Sam peers out the window of Bran’s room and south towards where he knows the kingsroad is—but beyond the golden glow from the sconces that line Winterfell’s walls and towers, there is nothing to see except darkness. Even the torches themselves are pinpricks of light against what looks like a literal wall of snow. The ominous blue-gray storm clouds that had been sitting low on the northern horizon all day had suddenly and swiftly moved south as twilight thundered in from the east. At first, it had simply been the usual fall of snow, growing thickly beneath everyone’s feet in the courtyards and the bailey and wallwalks crisscrossing through Winterfell.

And then the winds had come.

It howls now, like a dying creature and deep into the night, strong enough to whistle through minuscule cracks in the window frame. Most of the Stark household has barricaded itself indoors, around roaring fires or tucked beneath quilts and furs with children or with lovers, trying to stay warm as the snows build up around Winterfell like a fortress. Since Sam first joined the Night’s Watch all those years ago, he thinks he can count on one hand how many times he has seen a blizzard of this intensity in the North. 

_Eyes as blue as starlight peering down at him atop a decrepit horse, the rotten and decaying corpses of the dead passing him by the hundreds, empty-eyed and driven and terrible…_

Sam turns away from the window and the darkness and back towards the only other occupant in the room. Bran Stark is leaning over one of several books on the table, his nose scrunched up in thought as he peers at the writing through the candlelight and the blazing fire in the hearth. Frustration seeps down his face.

“There’s nothing here either,” Bran murmurs, closing the book with a troubled sigh. “This only goes back to the reign of Brandon the Burner and even then, the history gets more and more vague the further you go back. And it only mentions who was Lord Commander at the time. Nothing about the oath.”

Sam looks down at the book he himself had been reviewing—the Jade Compendium. A passage about Lightbringer had momentarily attracted Bran’s interest but that interest had soon waned when Sam told him that it said little more than what they already knew of the legends, that Lightbringer possesses a warm glow that makes it different from any other sword in existence. Searching through the remaining pages proved fruitless and Sam had finally had to stretch his legs to burn off his mounting confusion and exasperation.

Like a needle in a haystack, he thinks in dismay as he glances as the other books stacked on the table. Soon after he and Pod had pulled Bran out of his dream—or vision or memory or whatever it was that Bran tried to explain to them—Bran had quickly asked to speak to Sam alone about his knowledge of the history of the Night’s Watch. There had been such a fervent heat in the young Stark lord’s eyes, a terrible urgency that whispered of nightmares and winter, that Sam had wasted no time in pulling as many relevant books from the rookery and his chambers as he could carry. For the past several hours, the two of them have been poring over the scrolls and the tomes and the inscribed letters.

Bran’s reasoning though had been vague and distracted when Sam had initially asked, as if Bran was holding an entire conversation with someone else in his head and could not be bothered to directly answer Sam’s question.

Knowing about the Raven, Sam thinks, looking back over at the younger man, maybe I’m not far off.

Still, he tries again. “Bran—”

“The Andals are the ones who introduced a writing system to Westeros,” Bran interrupts, reaching for another book. “But even if the First Men didn’t write down the original oath, you would think that someone would have transcribed the oral history. Two thousand years of the black brothers’ history wouldn’t just simply... _disappear_.”

“Bran, I’m not sure—”

“There was probably something at the library at Castle Black,” Bran says, almost to himself. “If I’d known earlier, I would have told Jon. There must be something in the rubble, something that explains this…”

“Bran!”

The young man looks up with a startled expression, blinking rapidly. “What?” 

Sam tries not to let out a sigh, tries to not let his expression reveal the frustration clawing at the edge of his mind like a wild animal. Instead he pulls a book towards himself, almost as a shield. He likes Bran, sure—at least, he is far less scary than the all-knowing god that the Three-Eyed Raven was (is?). The young Stark lord is more forthcoming with his wide and oft-times embarrassed smiles, more eager to speak and far more willing to laugh than the monotone and blank-eyed Raven. But the kernel of knowledge, that nagging suspicion within Sam that the Raven is merely sleeping and not entirely obliterated from Bran Stark’s being, still makes him nervous, makes him cautious.

So he says, the wariness shot through like silver in his voice, “Why is it so important? I mean...I know why it’s important but how do you know it’s important?” From the baffled look on Bran’s face, Sam realizes he is not explaining himself well at all and he flushes darkly. He has had a thousand questions since Bran lost his Sight all those weeks ago. Even more questions have taunted him since the wildlings arrived, hollow-eyed and exhausted, coated in snow and ice, telling tales of the collapsing Wall and dangers in the dark. Did the Wall collapse because it had done its duty? Was there something more at play, with Bran losing his Sight and the Wall collapsing and…

He recalls the hollow black look in Jon’s eyes once he had awakened. He knows his closest friend in the world has been fighting for...gods, how many years now? There’s been no respite from it, from the moment he had been brought back to life by the fire god. And there is a part of Sam, a part that shudders and quails and drowns in the sheer enormity of it all, that cannot help the guilt that washes over him every time he thinks of it, cannot pretend that he had no part in it. If it had not been for his meddling, Jon never would’ve become Lord Commander. The Watch never would have known what happened in Hardhome. The wildlings may never have been allowed through the Wall. And Jon would not have received a knife in his heart for his compassion and his understanding.

 _But if the wildlings had never passed the Wall_ , a voice in his head argues even now (a voice that sounds awfully like Gilly’s), _then they only would have been added to the Night King’s army. It’s not your fault_.

Is it not though?

And all of that guilt, all of the stinging knowledge, came back the moment he saw the impossibly haunted weariness in Jon’s eyes when he had awakened, when Bran had questioned him about what had happened in the capital. Jon’s silence about the matter had only deepened everyone’s suspicions that whatever had taken place is too terrible to recall.

Or…

Sam shakes his head, dragging himself forcefully back to the present. “You know if there’s anyone who might believe whatever dreams or visions you’ve been seeing, it’s going to be me, right?” There is a look of mild consternation that briefly passes over Bran’s face so Sam continues, in a bit of an abashed tone, “Even before...well, even before all of this, I believed more of it than was probably practical. So whatever you say, whatever’s been happening to you since you lost the Sight...I’ll believe it. I swear.”

A long silence sits between the two of them for a moment or fifty. This, Sam knows, is a matter of trust, a matter of an uncertain _knowing_ and it settles between his shoulder blades like a trickle of ice water. He has known the Raven longer than he has known Bran Stark and vice versa—without access to his Sight, there is nothing about Sam for Bran to know anyway—and it is almost like starting anew in the middle of chaos.

But finally Bran says, “I don’t have my Sight back, Sam. It’s just...there’ve been dreams that I can’t control and it worries me. About everything that may have happened in the capital. About what _has_ happened at the Wall.” His eyes briefly flicker over to the window, where the blizzard has crusted the glass with spiderwebs of ice and snow. “And with Jon gone and Daenerys…”

Here he trails off, looking disturbed. Sam chews the inside his cheek, waiting for the usual hot burn of grief and anger to light up within him whenever the Dragon Queen’s name is mentioned...but instead there is nothing except a tremulous sort of worry, that nagging suspicion that he has tried to suppress for weeks and weeks now. 

An uneasy feeling of being tricked.

“I wondered about it, you know,” Sam says ponderously, as Bran’s eyes turn inquisitive. Sam coughs. “About when you—when the _Raven_ told me to tell Jon about...about everything.”

Sam watches as Bran’s eyes go distant, as if he is trying to dredge up a memory from another life (and perhaps that is exactly what he is doing). After a moment, he slowly nods. “I...remember. Vaguely.”

“Did you know that it was right after I had spoken with Daenerys and Ser Jorah?” Sam rushes on—and immediately regrets it when Bran gives him a flat look. “I mean, of course you don’t know _now_. But at the time...the Raven could see everything. Could see _anything_. He could see what happened to me. He knew what I had been told. And he must’ve known how close the Night King was.” 

When Bran’s expression fails to shift and, as if the dam of questions that has been welling up inside of him finally breaks, Sam blurts, “Something of that size, something of that magnitude—why was it so important to tell Jon _then_? When he was already distracted by the arrival of the dead? Why not after the battle? Why not even keep it a secret? We would’ve been the only two who had known. But the Raven told me, he told right after I learned what Daenerys had done to my father and Dickon and of course I would immediately think Jon would be a better ruler. Better than her, more compassionate than her.”

And Jon would never keep a secret like that from the people he loved. Not from the queen. Not from Sansa or Arya. And though Daenerys would never have spoken a word of it to anyone—her entire claim rested on the fact that her long-dead brother had no surviving children—what about Jon’s sisters?

_I should have waited. I shouldn’t have told him then, not with everything coming, no matter what I felt. I should’ve known better._

But he hadn’t. Because the Raven had timed his reminder perfectly.

And to his surprise, Bran lets out a sigh and nods. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that too. You remember what I said? About the dreams?” Sam can only nod, a little too stupefied by both the acknowledgement (he _remembers?_ ) and agreement (he _knows?_ ), and Bran presses his lips together, as if weighing his next words carefully. “The dreams—the _visions—_ I’ve been having...someone else has been controlling them for the most part. Trying to tell me something important. But I haven’t seen him in a long time. He told me to speak with you and the red priestess and the brother of winter, to understand more. But...”

Sam is flabbergasted. “What? Who?” 

“I don’t know who it is. He looks like Robb but dresses in the blacks of the Night’s Watch. He says—he _said—_ that names have power, his name in particular, and he never told me.” There is sadness in Bran’s tone, something akin to regret and...something more. But before Sam can fixate on it, Bran says, “He showed me that Elia Martell knew about Rhaegar and Lyanna, that the whole thing had been planned between the three of them. He showed me the Battle of the Trident, when King Robert killed Rhaegar. They knew. They had to have known what would happen. But..." 

Bran closes his eyes then and leans back in his chair, looking wan. Sam, on the other hand, is leaning so far forward that he is at risk of falling out of his seat, rocking from the revelations. That can’t be true, can it? Perhaps it may not have been a stretch of imagination to believe Rhaegar and Lyanna had been in love and eloped...but Elia had known as well? Why hadn’t they told anyone? The bloodshed of Robert’s Rebellion would have been avoided. Jon would’ve been raised as a Targaryen.

_And what would that have meant? What would any of it had meant, if the dragons were on the throne when the Night King marched south? Would Daenerys still have her dragons? Who would have led the Night’s Watch against the darkness?_

Sam has a sinking feeling in his stomach and he swallows harshly. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Bran sighs, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture that painfully reminds Sam of how young he is. “The last thing I saw, the vision I had today...the stranger wasn’t back but I saw…” He seems to be struggling for words, as if unable to find anything to accurately describe what he saw in his vision. Finally, he lets out a rough breath. “It was a memory. But I don’t know whose memory. I saw Brandon the Builder and two foreigners—a man wielding a flaming sword and a strange woman. The sword was Lightbringer, I know. And they knew each other, the man who had Lightbringer and my ancestor. I think that’s one of the reasons why they buried the sword in the Wall. And I think it has something to do with your oath.”

Finally, finally, finally, Bran meets Sam’s eyes but there is a weariness in his dark eyes that is so similar to Jon’s that Sam is briefly taken aback. Brothers or not, there has always been a solemnity about the Starks, wolves and ice and sternness, as frozen as the very Wall that has come crashing down leagues and leagues away. Quietly Bran says, his words halting as if he dredges up a memory from the depth of the oceans, “The stranger told me...not to trust the stories of the Children. Told me that...he said that any gift from them is poisoned. That I wanted—that the _Raven_ wanted—the battle against the Night King to be lost.”

 _Well_ , Sam thinks, mind numbly reeling. _You wanted him to trust you with this knowledge. So there you go_. It takes him a moment—several actually—to steady his whirling thoughts. “But if that’s the case, then everything that’s happened so far…”

“Has been a lie? Or at least half-truth?” Bran finishes, looking exhausted. “I know. And I don’t know. None of it makes _sense_. It feels like I almost have the answer but every time I get close to realizing the truth, something else happens and...it doesn’t matter. The living won against the Night King but I don’t think it mattered. Because the Wall still came down and I lost my Sight and somehow I think all of that affected Daenerys.”

Now it is Sam who sits back in his chair and briefly regrets the fact that he asked Bran to tell him anything. Gods, it is a thousand pieces and an answer so hazy, so obscure, that he can only begin to guess at it. Lightbringer. The Wall. Strange monstrous creatures. Rhaegal. Bran’s Sight. Whatever happened in the capital with Daenerys that is apparently tormenting his best friend...

“Do you think Jon knows?”

Bran only shakes his head. “If he doesn’t, then I think he might at least suspect. I need to speak with him as soon as he comes back to be sure.” 

Even Sam can hear that unspoken “if” in Bran’s words.

The pair of them sit in another heavy silence, each crushed by their own thoughts. Sam has never been one for gods or destiny or any of that sort of thing—he has seen a lot in these past almost nine years and it has made him somehow believe everything and nothing at the same time. He grew up with those stories—forces of good and evil, world-saving heroes and incomprehensibly horrible villains, tales of adventure and romance and tragedy and destiny.

But the stories had not told the truth, not really. Oftentimes the best of men were the disgraced and the lowly born, the vagabonds and the thieves and the people who refused to kneel. And even more so, the worst of humanity could be donned in shining armor and glorious titles and be revered by people who turned a blind eye to their misdeeds. Sam thinks of the men and women who had come together in Winterfell to fight against the Night King and the very forces of winter itself. These were not the people he read about in his stories but there, figures larger than life and perhaps because of it unable to be nothing more than ideals. And there at the end of the world, the bastards and the broken and the defamed and the damned and the outcasts had made a final stand against the darkness and the night.

And apparently it was not so final after all.

The blizzard continues to howl and scream just beyond the window of Bran’s room and the imagined chill of it causes Sam’s eyes to wander towards the roaring fire. He bites his lower lip and says, “Bran?”

“Hmm?”

“Why haven’t you told your sister?”

Bran is quiet. And then, “What do you mean?”

“You said ‘everything that may have happened in the capital.’ But you know, don’t you?” At Bran’s silence, Sam turns back to him, only to see the other young man's eyes steadfastly focused on one of the books in front of him, absently toying with the sleeves of his tunic. “Why not just tell her?”

If Sam thinks that the pointed question would garner him a quick response, he is sorely mistaken. Bran doesn’t say a single word for several minutes, his brow furrowed like an ebony gash above his eyes. It is a sensitive question, he knows, and he momentarily wonders if he has overstepped the boundaries, stretched the trust that he told Bran he could have in him.

Finally, Bran’s fidgeting alights on one of the books and he toys with the edge of a battered old cover. “Sam, I’ve been the Three-Eyed Raven for what feels like a very long time now. Sometimes I wonder if I remember how to just be _me_ , Bran Stark, the crippled Stark, or if I’m just putting on a mummer’s show about it.” The edge of the book comes undone but Bran keeps on fiddling with it. “There really are only three people left alive who remember who I used to be and maybe...well, sometimes I think Sansa is so relieved that I’m not _him_ that she doesn’t realize that I’m not the little boy she left at Winterfell all those years ago either. But I’m not the Bran who left the heart tree north of the Wall either.”

“People grow up,” Sam reasons, even as Bran shakes his head. _What does this have to do with not telling his sister about the destruction in the capital?_ “People change.”

“I know but…” Bran’s fingers still and he looks up at the ceiling, as if the answer is inscribed above his head. “If I’m not the same, neither is Sansa. If I tell her that I know the capital is truly ruined, that Daenerys did something unforgivable, what do you think Sansa will do?”

 _Wage war_ , Sam thinks immediately. The young Stark woman’s dislike of the Dragon Queen is a poorly-kept secret. Sure, Sansa Stark looks at nearly everyone with that same inscrutable and dispassionate ice-blue gaze but her public interactions with the queen in those days surrounding the war had been as frigid as the Lands of Always Winter. Sam remembers that last interaction in the war room, that tense exchange between Stark and Targaryen, with Jon at the fulcrum. Here were two women, two forces of nature nearly as powerful as the elements their Houses represented, clashing so forcefully on a matter that would inevitably damn them all.

Fire and blood. Fire and ice.

When Sam doesn’t answer, Bran says quietly, “I can’t do that. I won’t. Not to the North. Not to Westeros. And I can’t do that to Jon or Daenerys either.”

“Not to Daen—” Sam gapes at Bran. At this rate, he is pretty sure his brain is going to start leaking out of his ears soon. “Why?”

Bran finally brings his gaze down from the ceiling

“Sam, I don’t _know_ her.”

Sam is about to argue—of course he knows her, Daenerys had been here for weeks, a presence so magnificent it simply could not be ignore—but then his brain, addled from Bran’s observations and revelations, suddenly seems to groan with the effort of movement, as the battered gears started to shift.

No. No, of course Bran doesn’t know her. The _Raven_ had been the one to greet Daenerys once the Targaryen forces had arrived in Winterfell. The _Raven_ had been the one to sit in the war room with all the others, to advise and to plan (and to lie?). The Raven had been the one to silently judge them all in the aftermath of the battle. But Bran Stark, the crippled young lord of Winterfell with the shy smile and self-deprecating sense of humor...no, that boy had been all but asleep until the Wall came down.

Until the Wall came down.

_For this night and all nights to come…_

Sam swallows, feeling goosepimples rise up on his arms as he glances back at the window. The ice is thick on the glass now, black and webbed and nearly obscuring the blizzard that screams and rages against the ancient gray walls of the keep. There is nothing beyond the window except darkness and night, Winterfell a lonely bastion in the far North, leagues and leagues away from any other town or castle or holdfast, a beacon of light in the darkness. 

_In fact_ , Sam thinks, suddenly shivering despite the warmth of the fire, _if anything was hunting in the darkness_ , _Winterfell would be so easy to find._

The wind is howling. The wind is _shrieking_.

The ground shaking and in the darkness, inhuman growls, louder and louder, blue eyes slowly appearing by the dozens...the hundreds...the _thousands_...

No.

No.

“Bran?”

The young man looks up.

“Do you hear that?”

Bran follows Sam’s gaze to the window, confusion apparent on his face. But he listens.

The wind is...the wind is…

That’s not the wind.

_There aren’t any more stories about why than the stories you have here in the south. It’s all real life and nightmares and everything they told you to be afraid of cawing for your death._

Sam stands up, cursing the fact that he can feel himself trembling—honestly, after facing the nightmares and the terror of the army of the dead, he shouldn’t be afraid of anything, not anymore. _Sam the Slayer,_ he thinks with a queer sort of hysterical levity. He moves to the window, feeling as if he is walking through sludge and waist-high snowdrifts, a strange dreamlike aspect to his movements. He looks out the window, as far as he can, beyond the thick sheen of ice and into the darkness.

The torches have gone out.

 _The storm has gotten worse_ , he tries to argue, even as the noises from the darkness become more apparent. But even as he watches, cracks continue to crawl and splinter across the window, the ice growing impossibly thick and growing too quickly, far too quickly.

Sam can feel the cold spindly fingers of panic start to wrap around his thoughts and he forcefully pushes it down and away, into the darkness where it belongs, even as the howls and shrieks and inhuman noises continue outside. How long has it been since the end of that war? Four months? Five? Could any of the White Walkers have survived? 

_No, the White Walkers couldn’t_ , Sam thinks. _They’re not there. The dead are not there. The Night King created them. When he died, they died. He had created them…_

He stops.

Can it really be that simple? Bran's mysterious benefactor, his guide, his teacher...telling him whom to speak to for answers. The red priestess was dead, had been dead for months. But the other one...the other one...

_He left the babes out, the boys, for the real gods, he said. As sacrifices._

“The brother of winter,” Sam murmurs. His head reels as he looks back at Bran, who is watching the window with an unreadable expression on his face. “Bran. _Bran_. It’s Little Sam.”

“Little Sam?” Bran tears his eyes away from the window. “What do you mean?”

“Craster. It was Craster.” Sam rushes back to the table, feeling dizzy. “He sacrificed his sons to the old gods, he said. Gilly was telling me just a few days ago. I think...I mean, what else could it possibly be? I think the Night King turned them, turned them into White Walkers. Like how he raised the dead to be part of his army. He took the living and turned them into his lieutenants. It’s Little Sam. I know it. I know it is.” But why would Little Sam know whatever it is that was plaguing Bran’s dreams? The White Walkers are gone. Little Sam’s brothers are gone. The dead have been burned, turned to ashes, carried off with the wind.

The fire wavers.

“I’m going to go—” Do what? Fight against the monsters? Raise an alarm? Sam doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know_. Even after everything that has happened, even after death made flesh came roaring through the abyss over the walls of Winterfell, he knows he’s not a fighter. But he knows he can’t stay here, waiting in this room, waiting for the night. There is something out there in the ice and the snow and the darkness and it is screaming and the armies are gone and Jon is gone and it’s just them here in Winterfell, alone and defenseless and still battered from the previous attack. 

But Bran must know this, must at least understand. Because he only nods.

The hall outside of Bran’s room is frigid. Sam pretends he cannot see his breath as he huffs down the corridor, pretends that it cannot possibly be that cold within the very walls of Winterfell. The torches that line the halls splutter and flicker as the temperature drops to abnormal levels and Sam is only out in the hall for a few moments before his extremities have gone numb and his teeth start chattering—and he is not sure if it is from the cold itself or from the fluttering of anxiety that has settled in his stomach like a panicking raven.

 _Everyone's asleep_ , he thinks as he passes frozen door after frozen door. Maybe he is overreacting. Maybe he is simply imagining things on the wind that should not be there. Does he wake the household? Does he shout for help? _I'm dreaming. The Night King is dead. The dead are gone. It's nothing except the storm._

The shrill winds whistle through the halls and through the broken cracks of the stone as Sam finally stumbles across a squat stairwell leading up to one of the many walkways that crisscross Winterfell’s courtyards. But he stops, frozen where he stands as he gazes up at the stairwell. The door has clearly blown open from the sheer force of the winds battering it and a thick layer of snow coats the topmost stairs, swarming down into the innards of the castle. The torches lining the stairwell have gone cold so that other than the pale fall of snow and the iced stairs there is nothing beyond the door except a night as dark as pitch.

Sam takes a step forward. And then another. He is climbing the steps. Why is he climbing the steps? As he gets higher, the snow has fallen so densely that it is difficult to tell where to place his foot and he slips, falling heavily onto the top stairs and the landing, his hands sinking into snow nearly halfway up to his elbows. Snowflakes and minuscule ice shards bite at his face, swirling in from the darkness beyond the door.

He can hear the unholy screaming through the winds now. It is no dream. It is nothing in his imagination. The howls in the night, the dreadful shrieks that could come from neither wind or human, dance through the air, piercing it, rending the storm in two. And this time, it is accompanied by the faraway shouts of men—everyone is asleep. Everyone _was_ asleep. But not anymore. Not anymore. And it is too few. It is far too few. Winterfell is sleeping and the ghosts of night knew. They _know_.

Grimacing and cursing and shaking, Sam tries to heft himself to his feet.

Something steps into the doorway just above him.

Sam looks up.

Blue eyes, bright as starlight in a demonic alien face, stare back down at him.

 _Mother have mercy. Mother have_ mercy.

The creature leaps forward with an unearthly shriek and, out of sheer instinct, Sam throws himself backwards with a terrified howl, away from the demon’s gaping black maw, and slips on the stairs. He does not have time to find purchase and goes crashing down the flight of stairs, snow and ice trailing after him in his wake as he lands with a bone-crushing thud at the bottom. Even as his head ricochets off the cold stone floor, he can feel his arm twist unnaturally beneath his bulk, letting out another strangled shout of pain as he hears—and _feels_ , oh gods, oh Mother please—the bone break with a sickening snap.

He lays there, momentarily dazed...and it is enough time for the demon to scramble down the stairs after him, shifting from standing upright on two legs to grotesquely skittering down the stairs on all fours. It is a white spectre, as pale as the moon, humanoid but with sickening proportions, its arms too long and spindly, its legs bent back at the wrong angle. And its face--oh gods, its _face_ …

Sam opens his mouth to scream but the creature is already there, already crawling over him, its pupiless blue eyes staring down at him, glowing, its jaw stretching like a distorted and terrible mimicry of a human’s cry of terror. Black needle-like teeth line the creature’s mouth, dripping saliva glistening in the darkness, lit only by the terrible, terrible ghastly blue and Sam can no longer scream, can no longer make any noise, as the creature’s icy fingers wrap around his neck, leaning closely, the foul stench of its breath—the smell of death and rot and winter—edges closer.

Its mouth opens wider. Its fingers squeeze tighter.

He hears a terrible high thin wailing. He realizes, dimly, distantly, that the horrible noise is coming from him. 

_Oh gods. Oh gods. No. Please. Oh gods._

The demon rears back—

There’s a shout—

\--and the head goes flying.

The rest of the body collapses on top of Sam’s and the fingers go lax at his throat. Even then, Sam can still feel the pressure and the panic clawing into the tendons at his neck, can feel his breath struggling to force its way through a crushed airway. The world is a narrow tunnel, black around the edges, except for snow, snow, snow, nothing but snow and ice and darkness and blue eyes, screaming, screaming, _screaming_ …

“Sam!”

It’s dark. It’s so dark.

There is something else in the darkness. He can feel a forceful hand on his cheek. A curse. Shouting. The hand comes away bloody. It’s red. So red. 

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Sam!”

He tries to respond. He truly does. But he is too far gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 31 came out during AO3’s update, which means email notifications may have been sporadic. (It’s been A Week in more ways than one, man). I also apologize for the next…*checks notes*...six chapters. 
> 
> Next chapter: The Liar


	33. The Liar

The storm that barrels in from the north is unlike anything Gendry has ever seen before. 

The mammoth storm front stretches from the far eastern edges of the coast along the Straits of Tarth to the low peaks of the Red Mountains to the distant west. The clouds themselves are a massive tumultuous blanket of dark gray splintered with lightning, fading to an eerie black the farther down to the northern horizon they sank, and they are preceded by a sheer wall of paler gray clouds that rise up and up and up and nearly disappear into the colorless sky. Furthermore, as if competing with the encroaching storm, the usually foamy sea-green hues of Shipbreaker Bay have turned a furious white-capped slate blue, nearly as dark and threatening as the low cloud cover racing south towards Storm’s End. The waves break and roar and crash with such a tremendous furor against the battered sea-facing wall of the castle that the entire inside of the drum tower quakes and rumbles with it.

Gendry watches from atop Storm’s End, the squalls blowing in from the north carrying a familiar icy chill that he has become familiar with over the past year and a half. The sharp salty scent of the sea is drowned by it. For the first time in weeks, he cannot hear the shrieks of the gulls that usually pepper in the coastline. But he does not concentrate on that, not truly. Instead, as the fierce gales blow around him, it feels strangely like the culmination of something that has been building in him for a long while.

For a few days now, he has been unable to shake a queer sense of wrongness that has wrapped around his bones like a cloying poison, thick as molasses and dulling his senses. At first, he thought it was simply because of Davos’s brief visit, bearing terrible news (his home burned away, the people he had once known masssacred, Arry missing and threatened with death by the new queen), and that he had simply fallen into brooding. But while the grief and anger remain sharp as ever in his mind, this disquiet, this unease, had distracted him by its abruptness, having arrived one night and refusing to dissipate over the next several days. No, instead it has grown heavier as the days wore on.

And then he awoke this morning to see a dark storm bubbling up in the north, racing quickly south to swallow up the stormlands.

“At least Davos and the others should’ve made it to King’s Landing by now,” he remembers saying to Jurne as he broke his fast with a small meal of oatcakes, skewers of roasted hen and peppers, and apples soaked in honeyed wine, all washed down with an ale so potent that it made his eyes water ( _damn_ Farring). Jurne had taken one look at the distant skies, his pale eyes stormy with consternation, and only nodded absently.

“Strange though, this weather,” Jurne had said quietly. “I’ve never seen a storm like this come from anything except off the sea. Nothing of this sort has ever come from the north.”

Even now, Gendry is reflecting on those words, the ale souring in his stomach. He absently fingers the grip of the small dagger stowed at his side--both the castellan and the maester agreed that it would be appropriate to carry some sort of weapon on him though Jurne had frowned at the idea of it being anything more than a decorative symbol of his status. Gendry had scowled so hard at that suggestion that Farring had laughed himself sick, finally talking Jurne into letting him have an actual dagger. It was no warhammer but then, Jurne had said flatly, one could not go around wielding a warhammer at every perceived slight from other lords and nobles, no matter how well that had worked for his father.

But storms with other lords and nobles are of lesser concern than the storm coming in from the north. And true, Jurne must be less than half a decade older than Gendry himself and it’s not like Gendry has seen a thousand and one storms in his lifetime. But there had been that strange light in Jurne’s eyes, the physical embodiment of the cloying feeling of unease that has been following Gendry around like a ghost. For such a storm to come so soon after snow began obscuring the stony hills and valleys of the stormlands…

Gendry leans out over the crenelated parapet to stare down at the sea breaking against the rocks and stones below. He fully expects a mountain-sized wave to come barreling through Shipbreaker Bay to crash against the castle, crushing them all. His time spent at sea after Davos had saved him from a red witch’s machinations had given him both a deep sense of respect and fear for open water. Gods only know what sort of storm is brewing just beyond the bay and into the Narrow Sea.

“Why do you insist on moping up _here_ all the time?” a voice booms from behind him, possibly meaning to surprise him. Gendry however has gotten so used to that voice and its tendencies to pop up anywhere and everywhere that he manages to not jump in shock and fall to his inglorious death on the sharp and soaked rocks below. 

Instead he straightens, turning to frown at the big man crosses the top of the drum tower. “Didn’t think I was needed anywhere.”

Farring chuckles. “Aye, don’t you know? I thought Jurne and I would’ve made it clear by now--you’re the lord of this castle. You’re needed everywhere all the time.”

Gendry sighs, stepping away from the parapet and cautiously eyes the wall of storm clouds now practically over their heads, rising over them like a breaking wave. No wonder the sea has been thrashing so wildly--he feels so incredibly small with that sheer enormity bearing down on the castle, the roiling dark clouds beneath a cover of misty gray. Even now, Gendry cannot see if the storm brings rain or snow, though the darkness still flickers with lightning and the distant rumble of thunder.

“Have there been any arrivals this morning?” he asks, tearing his gaze away from the impending storm. The winds are blowing harder now, gales that sound more like sorrowful moans from a thousand different throats that mere gusts of air. Farring shakes his head and Gendry’s brow furrows. “So what is it? Didn’t think there’d be anything pressing enough that would need my attention before midday. And don’t say I’m the lord of Storm’s End and I need to be doing everything. Isn’t that what delegation is for?”

“Now what if I had come up here to say that our cream supplies have spoiled in the middle of the night and there’s been a smuggler amongst the bastards we took in who’ve been stealing our wine?”

Gendry raises an eyebrow. “Lehna won’t be too happy to hear that you’re telling tales again. And our wine is shit so they're more than welcome to it.”

At mention of his wife, Farring smiles and claps Gendry on the shoulder. “Aye. But after almost ten years, I think she’s come to expect it. Especially when it comes to trying to teach mule-headed young blacksmiths how to be a lord when all they want to do is look off into the distance manfully and mope about their circumstances. I mean, Seven help you, you weren’t this bad when you first arrived. You’d think having the Dragon Queen on the throne would’ve been cause for celebration.”

The story that the Baratheon household has been told is the bare bones minimum--that the final war for the crown ended with Queen Cersei disposed of and the Targaryen queen reclaiming the throne of her ancestors, although casualties had been inevitable. There has been, of course, concern there--Storm’s End lays too close to King’s Landing for there not to have been kinsfolk and acquaintances scattered between the two. But no one else has arrived from the capital to contradict the story, to tell tales of a dragon breathing fire and blood from the sky. No one else has arrived to condemn and damn the new queen for her cruelty and madness.

And a certain Stark she-wolf, with shrewd and mesmerizing eyes the ever-shifting hue of the sea...well, she has not arrived either.

But he says none of this aloud, remembering Davos’s parting words. Instead he only shrugs. “I’ve been distracted. I wasn’t expecting…” He stops, sees the looks on Farring’s face, scowls. “Let me guess--as lord, I need to expect everything and nothing.”

Farring grinned. “You really don’t need me around, do you? Since you already know what I’m going to say before I say it?” The smile fades a bit though as a more serious light darkens the man’s eyes. He glances up at the storm that is nearly on top of them now. “Jurne says this one might last a bit. But at least I’ve never seen a snowstorm come in with a horizon so dark.”

Gendry cannot help himself--he crosses his arms and smiles, following Farring’s gaze north. The stiff winds that are bringing the storm do indeed smell sharp and metallic--even though the winds themselves are cold as ice, Gendry might have to agree that there is nothing about this storm that promises a blizzard. “You and Jurne seem to have differing opinions about the storm.”

The big man shrugs, glancing above him--the wall of the storm has already passed out over Shipbreaker Bay. There is nothing overhead except churning darkness. Still, there is no rain and no snow and no hail--nothing falls from the sky and there is nothing _in_ the sky except darkness. It is a disturbing sight compared to the still pale gray light out over the bay. “Like I said, it’s different enough that I’m not saying it’s going to act a certain way. Now come on. I can barely hear you over these blasted winds. Did you like that ale I sent up for you this morning?”

“It tastes like piss and you know it,” Gendry mutters under his breath and begins walking towards the stairwell leading into the depths of the castle. It _has_ gotten colder though, he thinks. And strange that there is no snow, no ice, the dark clouds hovering overhead like a swollen promise, as if watching...

He can hear Farring’s laugh behind him.

As if waiting...

And.

 _Ice_. 

Claws of ice, searing down his spine. He stumbles.

Behind him, he hears the castellan’s laughter turn into a wet choke. 

And Gendry has no time to turn, no time to _react_ , because something has already slammed into him with such force that his head feels as if it has snapped off of his spine. It sends him sprawling onto the stones of the tower’s roof with an excruciating thud, the air knocked clear out of his lungs. The fact that his back was turned means his head didn’t knock against the stones and render him completely daft but now there is something big and heavy and silent sitting on his back and he can feel cold hands, cold _wet_ hands, moving towards his throat...and...and…

_No!_

Gendry doesn’t even think, doesn’t even try--his body reacts in a way that comes from growing up in the filthy streets of King’s Landing, golden shadows beneath a red castle (for so long too small to do anything except run, and then longer too, years in the glow of a forge, scowling faces, men who thought him too surly, men who were too into their cups, men who wanted a warm mouth around their cocks, pressing in on him, underestimating him, always always always), and one hand flies to his neck to prevent whatever is sitting on him from getting a decent strangling grasp on him and the other hand moves to the dagger at his waist and he _twists_ , stabbing upwards and behind blindly.

He misses. 

The muscles in his arm scream at the unnatural angle at which he is stabbing and he knows he cannot place enough force behind the blows to do enough damage and those hands--cold and wet like the deepest parts of the sea--are still around his neck, pressing his face into the stone, squeezing, something hot and painful digging into the tendons and-- _there_! He hits something solid, as damp and as chill as the hands around his throat, but it is there and he jabs again even as whatever is sitting on his back makes a hissing noise. He feels something ice-cold and wet hit the back of his neck, even as his vision begins to darken around the edges, again and again and again, and soon all around him, the world is a riot of sleet against stone, blinding him, choking him. And still he stabs. 

Again.

Again.

 _Again_.

And then there is furious high-pitched hissing and the pressure is gone.

Gendry flings himself onto his back, coughing and gagging and cursing as the world spins around him and above him and his vision becomes dotted with black spots around the edges--the clouds are still moving, faster now, a quickening spiral, and the winds are so _cold_ \--as he tries to regain his bearings. The sleet beats down on his face, into his eyes, into his mouth. Whatever it was--whatever it _is_ \--must, it cannot...where is Farring…

With a groan, he rolls to his side and slowly pushes himself up.

And in the darkness that has moved overhead, the wind howling in his ears and the icy sleet burning his eyes, he lifts his head...and sees them.

“Seven _hells_.”

There are three of them crouching just a few meters away, with two more crawling over the seaward-facing side of the drum tower, inhumanely-wide mouths gnashing in gaping canine-like underbites. Blood the color of a bruise pumps through a maze of veins beneath silvery translucent skin, slick from the sea and crusted with salt. The heads seem to merely be bulbous extensions of the neck, muscles straining and sinewy, even as they crouch lower to the ground, their strange claw-like appendages digging into the stone as if it were made of sand. He can see their organs, their hearts, their muscles-- _everything_ beneath that pale, pale, pale skin. And their eyes…

Their eyes.

Gendry has seen that wintery blue before.

He _knows_ that blue.

_Dawn never came. The night is here. Winter has come._

_This can’t be real_ , Gendry thinks as he scrambles backwards, his palms scrapping on the stone. Where is his dagger? Where is Farring? His mind feels sluggish--hells, even his movements seem too slow and confused, especially compared with only a few moments ago. 

And then Gendry sees the trail of blood he is leaving in his wake, staining the sleet crimson.

_What?_

When had he been injured? How far behind him is the stairway down into the tower? He blinks sleet out his eyes, staring at one of the creatures in particular whose leg is oozing bluish-red blood. Gods, where is his dagger? Where is Farring? He almost cannot hear himself think, his thoughts still sluggish, the wind too loud, his eyes preoccupied with the terrible nightmares--it can’t be, this can’t be, it’s not like before, it’s not true, it’s not--in front of him. He sees the two that had belatedly climbed over the parapet slowly start to crawl from behind the first three and Gendry knows. He knows that if they surround him, if they cut off his only exit down into the tower...he knows deep down, he will die. 

_Fuck_ , Gendry thinks, furiously looking around for his dagger or for Farring. He doesn’t know what these monsters are but he knows that blue, cold as the very depths of winter, knows it from his trek past the Wall, knows it from Winterfell. And--

One of the monsters launches itself at him.

For a creature of its size and of its ambling movements earlier, it moves startlingly quickly. Gendry barely has time to throw himself to the side as the sea demon’s claws gauge into the stone here his head was mere moments earlier. But the monster does not take a moment to resettle itself--instead, almost reflexively, it backhands Gendry across the face so violently that the blow manages to send him further back than his own scrambling did a mere moment earlier…not that Gendry notices. The sudden blazing pain from the punch radiates from his jaw all the way down his neck and his spine and his extremities. His face feels as if it is on _fire_.

He lays there, momentarily stunned. He is once again facedown against the stone, and the icy sleet and the chill stone feel almost like a godsend against his throbbing face. He is not even sure he can hear the wind anymore--there is nothing except the ringing in his head and the throbbing of his heartbeat, so loud that it sounds like the very thunder he had only moments ago seen in the distance.

Blearily he opens his eyes--at least one of them, he can already feel the other one swelling shut--and sees, to his surprise, the demons fighting amongst themselves, snapping and growling and clawing at one another. Apparently, none of the others seem to be pleased that the one who had attacked him isn’t intent on sharing.

Slowly and painfully, Gendry pushes himself up and away from the ground, cursing vehemently as the stone spins sickeningly beneath his hands. He cannot stand, that much is clear. Which means he cannot run. But he sees that he is right by the stairway. And he can at least pull his battered body over to it and thank whomever built this fucking castle that the doors leading to the roof were all iron, solidly fit to keep the storms from raging into the castle itself.

He drags himself with as much speed as he can muster, even as the part of his mind that was apparently not knocked senseless by the double blows from the demons screams at him to move _faster_. 

_Fuck you, I’m trying_ , Gendry thinks numbly, pulling himself through the archway and swallowing back bile as the world again tilts at a nauseating angle. Behind him, he can hear the blue-eyed monsters continue to argue...until one lets out a shriek that Gendry _knows_ is meant to alert the others of his near-escape. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

It’s all or nothing. With a surge, he throws himself through the door. Through the blowing sleet--a veritable wall of ice and rain at this point--he can see the creatures racing towards him, snapping at each other to be the first to the door. He thinks...he thinks maybe...he sees Farring behind them. But his dazed mind can’t understand why the man’s head is so far away from his body, utterly still in the sleet, eyes staring at nothing. 

And he kicks the door closed just as one of the demons makes a leap for the darkness of the stairwell.

The door doesn’t quite lock into place, not in enough time to render the force of the demons’ attack useless, and the jarring effect of the monsters throwing their full weight at the iron door causes Gendry to grit his teeth in pain as the barely-contained brunt of the blow travels up his leg. Their claws scramble for purchase around the jamb, digging deep furrows into the stone walls that surround Gendry, dust and sharp bits of broken stone falling onto his head and his face. He lets out a shout again, half-furious, half-terrified--he is injured, he is weaponless, he is alone. He has a brief and horrible mental image of the door swinging open and claws burying themselves into the meat of his thigh, dragging him back out into the darkness and the ice and the rain, feral jaws around his neck, his arms, tearing him asunder…

He hisses once more, feeling sweat or sleet or blood trickle down his forehead, and with one last burst of energy and in the heartbeat where the claws had vanished to try to redouble their efforts, he uses both feet to slam the door shut.

Gendry can hear them just beyond, throwing their weight against the iron, their shrieks of fury and hunger swallowed up by the wind. He lays there, gasping, feeling drained. He can barely see out of his right eye. The entire right side of his face somehow feels both terribly numb and dully throbbing with pain. He is not sure if the initial blow of the demon landing on his back cracked a few ribs and whether it was sheer adrenaline that kept him from noticing until now but each breath he takes feels as if his lungs are filled with hundreds of tiny daggers.

Gods.

_The dark winds of winter and death are rising..._

_They must’ve climbed the tower_. He pulls himself towards the staircase, unable even to clench his jaw without his head screaming in protest. This time, he does choke on some bile, heaving and spitting it onto the floor at his feet. What about the bailey? What if they get in some other way? Gods, all of the smallfolk, all of the people under his protection…

He remembers Winterfell and the mounds and mounds of bodies, of the long-dead, of comrades, of wildlings and northerners and the queen’s forces and all of them...dead and dead and dead…

Somehow he must climb down the stairs. Somehow he must drag himself to a landing where some of the skeleton guard is. He barely remembers any of it, barely knows how long it has taken him to go down so few steps. His head is pounding. There is ice on his skin and fire burning through his lungs. But the next thing he knows, he can hear men shouting and he is surrounded by a ruckus, hands supporting him, shouting questions he cannot answer, calling for Jurne. His head rings with the incessant throbbing of it all.

Still, he manages to grit out, “The bailey...the windows...close them off. They’re coming from the sea.”

“Who’s coming from the sea, my lord?” a voice he does not recognize asks and Gendry is too busy blinking blood and sweat and ice out of his eyes to focus on the source.

Monsters. Demons. He struggles to describe what he has seen, what is crashing against the iron door barely a few dozen meters over their heads. He thinks maybe he sees some of the men exchange looks, their faces blurry and instinct, his own head blazing, the torches making everything indistinguishable. And yet he stubbornly refuses to give in to the darkness tugging at the edge of his vision, no matter how blissful it would be, a respite from the dull pain in his skull and his neck and his lungs. He grits his teeth and spits blood. “Close the bailey, quick as you can. I’m your lord, aren’t I?”

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“Just do it!”

There is a murmur of voices. Do they do as he says? He cannot tell. Gods, everything hurts. But if the demons get into the castle, it will become a tomb. He has seen what the darkness can do. He knows the promise of destruction that winter can bring. 

There is a new voice now, one that he certainly recognizes.

“Do as he says,” Jurne is saying. “And get him to my rooms. I’ll be there shortly.”

“But the blood--”

Gendry wants to argue, wants to tell them to stop fussing over him and act with much more urgency. Hells, he is clearly not dying or they’d be shouting a lot more than they are. But the smallfolk, the stormlanders, the common people who are residing within the walls of this castle...and what if...what if the nightmares continued inland? What about all of the people who have decided to wait out the storms in their holdfasts and cottages and farms? 

He thinks he tries to say something. But there is something sweet and syrupy and warm at his lips and in his mouth and he gags on it, coughing and cursing, and he thinks one of the men mutters, “Oh right, there’s Robert in him” and he may call the speaker a series of colorful names but it gets very very fuzzy after that.

When it all clears up, Gendry is on his back, in an unfamiliar room, staring confusedly up at the ceiling and wondering how he got from the stairwell to this place. He does not remember giving into the darkness--it is muddled and gray and gods did they even listen to him, what was the fucking point of being a lord if they didn’t--and turns his head slightly to see Jurne sitting at his bedside, something akin to a scowl on the maester’s usually calm if exasperated features. There is a mortar and pestle sitting on the small rickety table that has been pulled closer to the bed, with something that smells minty and astringent rising from it. They are surrounded by shelves of books and half-open cabinets containing bottles of varying sizes, filled with cloudy or dark liquids, and he belatedly recalls Jurne instructing the men to take him to his rooms.

He also sees that his window is closed.

Jurne must notice him staring at him because the not-quite-a-scowl is turned on him. “Don’t move. I’ve bandaged your neck but I don’t want you opening the wounds.”

_Cold, wet hands around his throat, pressing him into stone, sleet choking him, his lungs burning…_

Gendry stares at him for a moment longer. “Did they close the bailey?”

“Why would they do that?”

 _Son of a--_

He scowls. “Because I told them to. _You_ told them to. Those...things, they attacked me and Farring on top of the tower. Farring's dead. I saw it. I saw them.”

“There was nothing up there,” Jurne says, his voice tight. “Not monsters. Not Farring. Nothing.”

Nothing up there? “That’s impossible. You think I did this to myself?”

Jurne is silent for a moment, reaching for the mortar and pestle. The angry look in his eyes does not dissipate. “Anyone can fall. And perhaps everyone in this castle is not so pleased with having a former bastard as their new lord.”

Gendry lays back against the cot, closing his eyes. Gods. Is this what Jon felt like trying to tell the northern lords of the impending army of the dead marching down from the Wall? “I told you what I saw. Why would I make it up?”

“Because what you think you saw is impossible,” Jurne replies and there is something new in his tone--something hot and angry--that makes Gendry open his eyes again. The maester is grinding the herbs in the mortar with more force than is necessary. His pale eyes are like molten silver. “Is that what you think this is? That all of this is a joke?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You honestly haven’t been paying attention to anything I’ve said these two months, have you?” Jurne reaches for a small bottle of an amber-colored liquid sitting on the table and pours it into the bowl. “Or you have and you think it is amusing to make your entire lordship into a jest?”

“Jurne, what are you--”

The mortar slams against the table, cutting Gendry off. Jurne pushes away from the table and storms over to one of the sagging shelves of books lining the walls of the room. It only takes him a moment to find what he is looking for and he pulls a book from the shelf. Gendry watches, frustrated and bewildered, as the maester quickly pages through the book before throwing the whole thing down onto Gendry’s lap. 

Gendry looks down at the open book...and stops. His fingers trace the picture on the page. It is familiar. It is too familiar. The translucent skin. The bulbous head. The underbite and the rows and rows of black teeth.

“This...this is what I saw.”

“And I call you a liar for it.”

Now Gendry is just exasperated. Something damn well near tried to tear his head off on the roof of this very castle and he is being called a liar for it?

Before he can snap back a response, Jurne reaches out and slams the book shut.

“You want to know why I call you a liar, my lord?” Jurne says, his voice cold. “Because you are telling tales of creatures that every stormlander has already heard about. Monsters and spooks and demons from the sea in storm--these are stories every wet nurse tells a child and they are stories men stop believing once they are old enough to know better. And you come here and say these are the things that attacked you, that these childhood monsters are real. Is that what you make of my teachings? That they are something to made fun of, that the stormlands and our culture is something beneath you to learn or take seriously?”

“Childhood…” Gendry trails off and glances down at the book still on his lap.

He sees the title.

_Songs of the Storm: Tales of Magic, Myth, and Monsters._

Gendry’s brow furrows at the cover, his fingers lightly grazing the illustrations. It is clearly a book for young children born in the stormlands, the sorts of stories that eager young ears would perk up at, to read during a terrible storm, scooting close to a fire, a candle held under their face to distort their face with shadows, giggles and screams and high-pitched laughter. He does not recall such books for children in the crownlands but he knows the tales that little ones had told amongst themselves, heard from adults, turned into larger-than-life creations, shadows and goblins and demons and creatures of the deepest darkness…

Slowly he looks up at Jurne. Hells, his head is killing him. “The White Walkers and the dead were tales told around fires in the North. The dragons were creatures thought to be extinct. You believe in those.” It feels as if his throat is full of burning sands, his thoughts misty--but slowly, slowly, he is starting to piece the puzzle together. “If it never ended, then why wouldn’t the monsters from here be real too?”

Here. Everywhere. Demons of legend, clawing their way from the depths of the earth and the sea, hellish blue eyes blazing.

Jurne sighs, sitting back down in his chair with weary exasperation, his frustration clearly frayed. “If what never ended?”

The night. Seven hells, she was right. 

What does that mean of the dead? What does it mean that these creatures were waking so far south of Winterfell? Why is any of this even happening? Arya had buried a knife in the Night King’s heart, his body shattered into ice, his generals as well, the dead collapsing around them like puppets with their strings cut. 

And yet...and yet…

_The night is dark and full of terrors._

Gendry closes his eyes and collapses back against the pillows.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My old meteorology professor is screaming somewhere about the weather phenomena in this chapter and about how “that’s not how fronts and shelf clouds work!” and for that, I apologize to him. Planetos weather be crazy.
> 
> I also belatedly realized we technically have a character whose moniker is “the stranger” in this fic so the name of the chapter has been changed.
> 
> Next chapter: The Betrayer


End file.
